The Rebound and the Rink
by GreenWithAwesome
Summary: After a messy break-up with her secret boyfriend, Princess Gail decides to have a rebound in the form of a Selection. Life, however, has a way with meddling with her ingenious plans, and with a rebel resurgence forcing her into the spotlight and a hobby she must keep hidden, Gail may have bitten off more than she can chew… [Sequel to TSaTS. Male SYOC closed]
1. One Massive Long Rebound

**A/N:** **You do not need to read The Selection and the Spy to understand this!** It takes places in the same world with most of the same characters, but I will fill you in on everything necessary to be able to enjoy. That said, **this story will obviously contain spoilers for tsats,** such as who won, who lived, the fate of some characters etc., so if you don't want spoilers, click away now.

Enjoy!

* * *

The puck skitters close to out of bounds.

" _Score, please, I'm begging you!"_ I scream, throwing myself forward to clutch the TV in a desperate attempt to imbue some of my desperation and rage into the match.

The Ottaro Otters _cannot_ lose this second period. They. Can. _Not._

" _Gail!_ Move your butt! I can't see!"

Zelda yanks me back and I roll into the sofa. There's screams and cheers and I scramble to a position where I can see, which is leaning on my side. Hockey sticks clash, ice churns, and Ridley tanks through three players before slamming the puck to shoot – it misses the goal by inches.

A piece of popcorn clocks the TV. " _Useless!"_ Zelda screeches, withdrawing her arm and shoving it back into the bucket. "Should've gone for it earlier when the goalkeeper was recovering from that last shot!"

I clasp my hands together. There's ten seconds before the bell. _Ten._ If they don't score, they'll never recover by the third period, and god knows how terrible Kudrow is at stamina—

"Gail?"

My eyes flutter left. My younger brother, Taeyang – Tay – picks up the pieces of popcorn catapulted by Zelda and sets them into a pile in front of him.

"I thought it was bad to litter."

"It is. Don't take example from Zelda—"

"She's doing it! _She's gonna' score!"_

I launch forwards the same time as Zelda. " _Scoooooooore!"_ We scream in unison. The puck zips and darts between toes, Ridley pans it to Wilson, Barking goes to intercept but misses, Wilson shoots—

The puck sinks into the net.

Popcorn flies.

" _Yeeeeeeeees! Wahoooooo!"_ I leap up and dance as the bell goes for the end of the second period. The Ottaro Otters are still in it to win it. Zelda jigs besides me, screaming out war cries and, "The Calgary Canaries _suck!"_ in her oh-so eloquent way.

Tay stands too, but less enthusiastically. For a nine-year-old he's tall, nearly four foot five. Still, he tugs at my dress and stares warily at the popcorn havoc around us.

"But Gail, why are you littering?"

"It's all right," I say, kneeling down to scoop a few into the tipped bucket. "We'll clean up."

He smiles, nods, and kneels to diligently start helping. It's ridiculously cute – one of those, _I want to take a photo_ moments, but as per the rules of watching ice hockey, all phones are either on silent or off until breaks. Mine sits in the fluffy pink cushion, charging.

Zelda takes a huge breath and flops down beside me. "Phew, that was close. Too close." She wipes her brow beneath a flop of dyed black hair that spikes just down passed her ears. Self-cut, a la Zelda. "There's work to be done, but we can still win. God, if Kudrow hadn't made that early blunder—"

"It was an accident. Her arm happened to be in that position before Smith made it look like elbowing—"

"Which she should've seen coming!" Zelda scoffs. "It was a predictable move to deliberately engineer a foul. That's practically the Canaries' only tactic." She raises her hands. "Now, they just need to focus— especially Nelson. She needs to get her head in the game or sit on the bench."

The TV flashes replays of the best parts. Epic goals, great passes, brilliant dribbles and outplays. Then the camera finally pans to the studio above the rink, and the commentator's couch.

"Eee!" Zelda squeals, and I'm right next to her in excitement.

Because it's only the legendary Bellona Strike that's gone all the way to Calgary to commentate. She was the only decent player to come out of the Angeles All-Stars, and oh boy does she makes it work. She flicks back her long brown hair, laughs heartily, and talks through the plays of both teams.

" _That early foul definitely counted_ ," she says to her co-hosts. " _Watching the replay makes me question the validity of the elbowing claim, but nonetheless it was a smart play by the Calgary Canaries_."

"You see?" Zelda nudges me. "She's thinking what I'm thinking, and she's awesome, so therefore _I_ am awesome."

We're glued to the action, every word that Bellona speaks, as Tay silently picks up each pieces of popcorn to replace in the bucket. As the commentary halts for commercial break, I finally look around.

Crumbs are everywhere. We're watching on the big screen TV on the glass stand, but somehow, pieces have strayed under the dusk pink sofa at my back, the matching armchair, even the brick fireplace on the other side of the parlour. The drawn curtains cut off the sun from outside, but the multiple shades of pink, white and cream are enough to keep it light.

"Aaaand now this place a mess." I wipe crumbs off my lap. "We'd better get this cleaned up before—"

A knock interrupts me dead. Zelda's face goes pale as the moon at night, and she dives behind the armchair, pretending to zip her mouth shut. A signal for me to pretend she's not here.

I turn down the volume. "Erm, who is it?"

"It's Rudy, Your Highness."

My older brother's valet and best friend, and someone I've known for practically my whole life. Nice person, and funny… when he's not being Zelda's father.

Zelda shrinks even more at his sharp tone. Oh boy.

"Can I help you, Mister Rudy?" I ask.

"I know Zelda is in there."

I wince. "N-No, she's not. She just left."

"Really now. Where to, may I ask?"

"Er… the ladies room?"

"Mmm, that's funny. I heard her screaming about hockey not mere moments ago… a _wing_ away." He pauses. "I believe she said, _The Calgary Canaries suck_?"

Zelda shakes her head desperately at me, but I know refusing him entry will only make it worse now.

"All right, she's… here."

The door opens. Rudy is tall, lanky, pale and lightly freckled, but well-groomed – befitting his bespoke valet's liveries and white gloves. Not a hair of his dark red ponytail is out of place.

Spectacles hang low on his nose, and he regards first me with a stern expression… then the armchair.

"Come out from behind there, Zelda."

Zelda jumps up. "Gail, you snitch!"

"Don't blame Her Highness," Rudy snaps. "You're supposed to be in class!"

"I've been studying _all day,"_ she protests. "The latest game was on— with the Ottaro Otters— Bellona Strike is on, I can't miss it—"

"You can watch the rest of the game," Rudy says, opening the door wider, " _after_ you study."

"What about June?"

Rudy rubs his temple. "Funny you should mention your sister, who is actually with her tutor. She is also six. _You_ are seventeen, and you need to finish school—"

" _Gail_ doesn't have to go to school."

I want to shrink and disappear. Not this again. Never this.

Sensing another impending argument, Tay comes to my side and warily clutches my arm. Oh boy, it must be really bad when you make a _nine_ -year-old feel awkward.

Rudy blows out of his nostrils in a tired, frustrated sort of way.

"We have discussed this before." His voice is dangerously even. "You are _not_ Her Highness, and you will _not_ be treated in the same way. Go to your tutor."

"But—"

" _Now,_ Zelda."

Zelda's face scrunches up, but she huffs, passes an apologetic looks my way, and storms out. When she disappears, Rudy lets out a sigh.

"I'm sorry about that, Your Highness. Would it be all right if you paused the game until she finishes her daily studies?"

I nod mutely and pause Bellona's speech midway.

"Thank you." He says no more, shaking his head and shutting the door to me, Tay, and the quiet hum of the TV.

Tay plonks down and purses his lips. "Awkward."

I can't help but bark a laugh. "Oh yeah."

"Mister Rudy is scary."

"He's not so bad." Though I'm glad it's not me in Zelda's position. "Come on. Let's clean up."

We sweep the popcorn into the bucket, and I call my lady's maid, Aderyn, to vacuum. As Tay curls up on the sofa and fiddles with his hands, I grab our phones. Zelda's background is of us, pouting into the camera in a ridiculous selfie, but nothing important has come through.

Then I check mine.

On the front is a text. From Chocolate Ninja.

 _We need to talk._

My stomach drops. Capitals, full punctuation. Received over thirty minutes ago with no elaboration.

That's nothing good.

"Aderyn?" I call over the hoover. She turns it off. "Can you watch Tay? I have… something to deal with."

I'm out before she can argue, running as fast as my slippers will take me. It's early afternoon in August. Not too hot, but hot enough when I'm pelting down the hallways of Angeles palace and to the gardens. The guards let me pass.

"Princess Gail?"

Oh, I completely forgot my bodyguard. Officer Naomi Astrauskas towers above me, not even out of breath from what she'd probably call a light jog, and comes to stop by me, cocking her head.

"Where are you going in a hurry?"

"I, er, need air!" I squeal. "Please can you leave me be?"

"You know the rules. Bodyguards at all times on outdoor palace grounds—"

"I know, I know, but _please."_ I always have to spin this excuse with her. It's hard keeping secrets from your bodyguard. "The hockey game has made me overexcited and I need to be alone for a few moments." She doesn't look convinced, and I scramble for something. "If it helps, I'll be at the stables?"

Naomi has one of those faces where everything is written as openly as a book. Her manicured eyebrows rise on her brown skin. Her lips roll.

"I'll escort you there, and _then_ I'll leave you."

"Fine. Okay." Compromise.

Summer air embraces me like a hug, but all I can think about is that stupid text. _We need to talk._ Why does that sound so ominous, so contrast to the sun in the sky, the gentle breeze that tickles my bare legs and whips my long, brown hair out of place?

We arrive at the stables to a familiar scene. An outhouse a few yards away from the Amendment Wing exit, dark green wood hangs over several horse pens and huge bales of hay. My old girl, Unicorn, a dark Arabian, whinnies at my presence, and I reach for her, comforted that at least I know there's one creature who will always be straight with me. Even if I can't understand a word (or neigh) she says.

A large man comes around the corner with a huge pitchfork, and drops it immediately to doff his straw hat when he sees me. "Ah, Your Highness! I wasn't expecting you here!"

I smile. "Hello, Senior Mah. How are you?"

"I'm very well, thank you! Unicorn's been keeping well, too." He grins, in that moment striking a close resemblances to a fat, happy kumquat. If kumquats were fat and happy. He hoists his overalls. "Sheng and I've been taking good care of her as always, as your lovely family takes care of us."

Sheng. The name spills shivers down my back.

"You should've brought a jacket," snorts Naomi.

"I'm fine," I insist. "Can you leave me now?"

Naomi steps back. Her uniform boots are still pristine, unlike my slippers, which are now ruined.

"All right. Stay in sight of the stables. Yell if you need anything."

She takes a few steps back into the bushes. Out of sight, out of mind, but I know she's not too far away if trouble occurs.

I'm at that point where I have to think that this is trouble.

"I'm sorry about the mess," says Senior Mah. There are bits of hay strewn here, there, everywhere. "I was hoping to leave early today. To go to the hospital."

Ah. His mother. The _senior_ Mah. Sheng told me she's been ill for the last few months with cancer.

"Please don't worry about it. I'll keep my visit short so you can be on your way." It's a struggle to keep smiling. "So, er, where is Sheng today? I wanted to talk to him about Unicorn."

Just as I ask, he appears around the corner. Sweat coats his brow, his neck, his bare chest, sculpted like a freakin' god. Cool black eyes land on me but don't light up and instead avert to the ground, and he rakes a gloved hand through his cropped black hair like he's unintentionally modelling for a shoot.

Senior Mah first chides something in Chinese. "Cover yourself in front of the princess, Sheng!"

He goes a little red, but turns and searches for a T-shirt amongst the tools and instruments by the shed. The fabric is so thin I can still see everything beneath.

"My apologies, Your Highness." Senior Mah starts to bow. "Sheng was working to muck the stables today, and the weather—"

"That's fine, Senior Mah," I say, probably too quickly. "I understand work must be so difficult. It must make _being clear_ quite difficult, too."

Sheng stiffens. "My diction is fine."

" _Your Highness!"_ Senior Mah squawks.

"My apologies, _Your Highness,"_ Sheng adds quickly.

"See? Only four words both times." I stare down Sheng with questions in my eyes, but he refuses to look at me. "Funny how there are so many combinations of four-word sentences that can be totally vague and ominous."

Senior Mah raises an eyebrow. "Well, absolutely, Your Highness—"

" _Bah_ , can you give us a minute?" Sheng looks ultra composed as he speaks. "I'd like to give a rundown of Unicorn's latest exercise schedule to Her Highness."

Senior Mah nods his head and ducks away, retreating towards the shed. I don't miss the jolly grin that spreads on his face, and it drives guilt into me like a punch to the gut. By Sheng's face, he feels it, too.

Then his father is gone, and Sheng and I are alone.

All of me wants to run into his arms, squeeze and hug and plant a few kisses, but Sheng today is wooden, stiff like the trees that clasp the walls of the palace garden. This isn't normal, not since we started secretly seeing each other.

Sheng clears his throat. "You didn't come immediately."

"I was watching the game."

"I… should've known that." He sighs, then comes closer to Unicorn, but really to me. "We… need to talk."

"Yes, I saw. I don't know what's going on, but it sounded really serious, and—"

"It is." Finally, he meets my gaze. "Gail, I think… I think we should break up."

The world teeters beneath me, and it's a fight not to yell.

"W-What? Why?"

"Because of… this." He gestures between us.

"What is _that_ supposed to mean?"

"I mean… because of… because of the secrecy. That we have to keep our relationship discreet."

My eyebrows dip on my head. Where the heck is this coming from?

"Erm, as I recall, Sheng, I was _happy_ to announce that I was publically taken but _you_ wanted to keep it secret."

"I… know." His jaw works, a sign that he's hiding something and trying to cobble an excuse over it. "But… I didn't realise how much I would have to sacrifice for it."

"So… seeing me isn't worth the secrecy?"

"That's not what I meant."

"Well, that's exactly what you said."

His lips roll. "Gail, come on. You know that's not it."

"Isn't it?" I protest. "Because this is coming out of nowhere. You wanted to keep our dates a secret, not me, and now _I'm_ being punished for it?"

"I didn't want to disappoint you."

"I'd rather be disappointed than led on for two months!" I withhold the growing scream in my throat, but instead it forms as tears on my eyelids. "If you knew you couldn't handle the spotlight then you shouldn't have asked me out in the first place. It would've saved us both the _sacrifice._ "

"Please, I… it's not like that. Not like that at all." He goes to reach my hand, but recoils sharply like he's been hit. "I can't even touch you. Do you know how frustrating that is?"

"Yes!" I snap. "If you want to hold my hand publically, why can't we just announce our relationship? What's the problem?"

"The media—"

"Will give us space if I demand it. Press aren't allowed on palace grounds without say-so."

He makes a noise of frustration, rakes his hair, paces back and forth.

"You don't understand—"

"You're not giving me anything to understand!"

"Can't you see? You and me… we're from two different worlds, two different universes, Gail! You're a princess, and I—" He seethes. "I'm just a lowly stable hand that will never be worthy of you."

It's a slap to the face. A slap that fills me both with pity and fury. _This_ is why he wants to break up?

"Are you kidding? My family dates normal people all the time! The current queen is an architect. My mother was a jujitsu teacher! You're making no sense."

"Because of the Selection! They elevate to a higher status and _become_ worthy of you."

"There are no castes anymore, Sheng—"

He scoffs. "There are no castes in name, but there will always be a class system. You will always be at the top, and I will always be at the bottom."

I'm _so_ not here to argue about that.

"It doesn't matter. You _are_ worthy. That's why I'm dating you now. I don't need to have a Selection to see that."

He throws up a hand. "You may think so, but what of the rest of the world? They will see me by your side and think you're dating down."

"Who cares about what anyone else thinks? All that should matter is me and you." My cheeks puff. "What do you even want me to do about it? _Have_ a Selection so there's a chance you'll be chosen to _elevate_? It's one in a million odds!"

He's silent for a moment.

"Then there's still a chance." He sighs. "But… I am never going to earn my way to a title, and you will never hold a Selection…"

"I don't want to hold a Selection _because I have you_!"

"I can't keep dating you knowing I will never be good enough!" Finally, a note of desperation, but he buries it instantly. "I can't. I'm sorry."

My vision starts to blur. All this, because of… who I am?

"So… that's it? We're over?"

"We're over." He bows his head, disturbingly void of emotion, and says a little louder. "Unicorn will always be well-kept by me personally, Your Highness."

Then he turns, and he's away, leaving me to spill tears on my own.

* * *

It's a while before I let anyone into my bedroom.

Or, more appropriately, before anyone lets themselves in without knocking or announcing themselves and rudely plonks themselves on my bed like they own the place.

"Ugh. Stupid tutor went over ancient Illéan history like it's relevant to us anymore," Zelda grumbles. By the touch of milky pink light that floods behind her, it's early evening. "Did you know there was a cultural wave on social media of sharing captioned images of little yellow creatures in overalls? No? Me either, because I don't care! Now let's get back to watching the—" A finger pokes me through the comforter. "Gail? Are you napping?"

Curled in a ball under the covers, tears streak my pillow. I've already refused entry to Aderyn and Tay several times, the latter causing guilt to gnaw at me, but I didn't want to see anyone, and I definitely didn't want anyone to see me.

Sheng broke my heart because he didn't feel _worthy_ of it. Despair – it clenches me in a tight fist, refusing to let go, but the coherent parts of me war with pity and acute rage, and it only makes me feel worse. I can't even decide how to feel about it, and yet it all melds together into one huge lump in my throat that threatens more sobs.

Zelda unfurls a corner of the cover and pokes her head in. "Are you crying?"

I turn away, but Zelda pulls off the cover and exposes me to cold air.

"You're not even changed? What happened—?" She gasps. "Wait. Was it… Chocolate Ninja?"

I make the barest of nods.

Zelda launches to her feet and rolls up her sleeve. "I don't know what the hell went down, but I'mma' beat that boy so hard he'll throw back in time to when he came out fresh from his mother's—"

"I don't need that right now. Please." I snatch the covers back. "I just… want to sulk."

She settles next to me, missing my implied _alone._

"Will you tell me what happened?"

And yet, I can't stop babbling until every last drop of the story is out. Zelda looks about a thousand times more ready to pummel Sheng by the end of it, but she largely channels it into cracking her knuckles instead.

"So he won't date you because he's, what, a _peasant?"_ She holds up air quotes. "What a stupid reason. That's like saying I can't be best friends with you because Rudy's in the palace's service and used to be a Six."

I know that, but it doesn't change what Sheng did. Doesn't change that it hurts, hollows me out like a cavern collapsing on itself. We haven't been dating very long, but knowing that we danced and cuddled and kissed for it to end in nothing… it hurts.

Real bad.

I sit up and wipe my eyes. "It _is_ stupid. I don't care about his background."

"Humph! You sure you don't want me to dispense of his idiot ass? Fling him into the sun? 'Cause I totally can, if that'll make you feel better."

The mental image of Zelda taking Sheng by the arm and launching him into space _is_ funny, but not even that can dice my gloomy mood. The clouds seem to hang on my shoulders like a heavy cloak.

"He would rather I hold a freakin' Selection and _chance_ it to win the public's affection over date me publically now! Why? It just makes no sense!"

"Because Chocolate Ninja is a big moron, with capitals, trademarked. It's the name of his autobiography."

"It's just— just ridiculous!" I pound my fists against the pillow. "I almost want to have a Selection just to shove it back in his big, mean face—"

My back straightens.

Wait.

Isn't that… the perfect way to get over him?

The Selection is a tradition throughout my family. For generations, the Schreaves have held Selections to find significant others amongst the general population, inviting thirty-five participants to win the heir's hand.

 _Thirty-five._

My brother has already had his Selection, and though it wasn't… perfect, he did find his future wife amongst them. If I hold my Selection… I can get over Sheng and then rub it in his face when he inevitably doesn't get Selected.

And by then, I'll be _so_ over him.

The comforter flies off, and I throw on some proper clothes over my dress as I speak. "I'm going to have a Selection."

Zelda startles. "Wait, what?"

"Yeah!" I turn, suddenly giddy. "This is the perfect opportunity to rub his stupid idea back in his face. Show him what he's missing and what he _could have_ got if he hadn't played me like a fool. I give him his chance to be Selected, which he'll get never in a million years, and when he doesn't, I'll have thirty-five hot guys to help me get over him. Think of the eye candy!"

"Gail, slow down." Zelda intercepts me by the door. "You're… hurting, I get it. But… throwing yourself into a Selection—"

"I always wanted to have a Selection anyway. To have my chance at a fairy tale romance. I started a countdown when I was nine. How many days is that? So many!"

"About three thousand. But Gail—"

"See? It's been three thousand days since—"

"Just _listen_." Zelda silences me by waving her hands. "You can't seriously be all-for a Selection at the clap of your hands. All this trouble just to make one measly boy jealous? One who doesn't deserve another ounce of your time or attention?"

My cheeks puff. "What's the best way to get over a break-up? A rebound, of course."

"So you want to hold an entire Selection just so you have a massive, long _rebound?"_ She scoffs. "That is the stupidest idea you've ever had."

I glare at her.

"Okay, okay." Then she grins. "That time you played a prank on the queen by pretending to be a pizza man was definitely worse."

"Hey, that was a great April Fool's. She never saw it coming."

"You walked in and the first thing she said was, _Gail, why are you dressed as a pizza man?_ "

"… Touché." I wave her away. "Look, if Chocolate Ninja thinks I should have a Selection, then I will. He will never be Selected and I will have thirty-five boys to help me completely forget he ever existed."

Zelda wavers by the door, narrows her eyes with cold calculation. For a moment, I don't think she'll move, but then she steps aside and pats my shoulders.

"Fine. Then I'm with you." She points at me. "But, girl, you better make his ass so jealous he literally turns green."

It's good to have her on my side. Not that she ever hasn't been, even during April Fool's.

"Thanks, Zel."

I give her a sidelong hug, and she snorts, but returns a pat. When I pull back, she's frowning.

"I'll support your cause, but…" She winces. "I'm not the one you have to convince."

There's someone who won't be easily swayed.

And she's right, because there's no way on earth my brother the king, Roy, will let me hold a Selection.

Not after the calamity that was his.

I've already made up my mind. Roy might not have said yes yet, but whether he gives his approval or not, this Selection is going to happen.

So by the end of it all, Sheng will see what a huge mistake he's made.

And I won't even remember his name.

* * *

 **A/N:** _A recent census has confirmed that a gentleman between the ages of eighteen and twenty lives within your household. He is cordially invited to submit his name to the Selection of Her Royal Highness, Gail Su-Jin Schreave, Princess of Illéa and second in line to the throne._

SUBMISSION RULES:

 **1\. No flawless characters.** I will ask either that you change your character extensively or resubmit a new character. I was lenient with this last time, but no longer. I cannot emphasise enough how extremely boring perfect characters are to write for me, so please, please, _please_ give your gents imperfections in their personalities!

 **2\. DIVERSITY.** I encourage you to send some diverse characters! Illéa is hugely varied and wonderful like our real world, and I feel it is a disservice if my story does not reflect that. I am also advocating for diverse personalities: give me some Eans as well as Eriks! (If I don't get an Ean, y'all, I'll have to make my own douchecanoe who will steal spotlight from your characters…)

 **3\. New OCs only, please.** Please don't submit your character if he has already been submitted to another, _active_ story. If the story is inactive _and_ didn't introduce your character in depth, that's fine. I'd like to keep these characters unique!

 **4\. Do not name your character after an existing fictional character** if the name brings connotation to that specific character. No Percys, no Mavens, no Dorians (names like Harry or Charlie are fine). Please also **avoid names of characters who were featured in The Selection and the Spy.** As this takes place in the same world, I don't want to cause confusion. (I know, I know, I'm very sorry to say that the name Rudolf is off the table.) If you're not sure, no worries, send the form and I'll let you know if there's a problem.

 **5\. Make sure your character's face claim is relatively close in age.** Between sixteen and twenty-five is fine. Just no thirty-plus-year-olds posing as twenty-year-olds, please. I will only accept face claims of older actors on a case-by-case basis, so please ask.

 **6\. Your character's age should reflect their professional skill level.** These boys are only twenty at maximum. No way will they be the CEO of McDonalds or a top-ranking lawyer at their fancy New York firm. Many of them will be in school or university – that's fine! They could also be apprentices at their work – that's also fine. Just keep their skill level relatively even to their age and how long they've been doing it. I am flexible with this, so you're welcome to shoot your character by me first.

 **7\. Please review frequently.** Don't submit your character and then never appear again. I would love to know what you think about the portrayal of your character, and your opinion of the other characters, too. Root for someone! It's more fun! I am obliged to let the submitters of characters who review more often advance further through the competition.

 **8\. Please fill the form out as much as possible.** The more detail you provide, the better I can write your character, the more likely they are to advance further through the competition.

 **9\. I will be operating on both a "first come, first serve" and "quality over quantity" basis.** That means, the quicker you get your character in the better, but also that I may reject your character if they're not a good fit for the story. I have a duty as the writer to create the best story possible, and with limited spots, I need to make sure I do this with the best resources possible. That includes characters. If I happen to reject your character, I will allow you to rework him or submit another for consideration.

 **10\. As of the posting this chapter, you cannot reserve spots or provinces**. I have known people to keep their reservations for so long it delays the writing, which I would like to avoid. If you have already reserved your province and cleared it with me, you're fine. Please also write 'coco pops and milk make a bowl full of fun' in your form somewhere so I know you've read the rules. Having done an SYOC before, it's incredibly frustrating when people don't take the time to do so, so it will be an auto-reject if this is not included.

 **11\. Please PM me the form** , and use this format in the subject line: **Forename and Surname, Age (in numbers), Province, Profession**. For example, "Henri Jaakoppi, 18, Sota, Baker." No other submission methods will be accepted. **Do not post your forms in the reviews;** I will auto-reject your character if you do!

Please note: I am following the style of _The Heir_ and will be writing solely from the POV of Gail.

I'm flexible with the number of characters, but at minimum, **ten characters are being accepted,** and I definitely won't go above twenty. I may close submissions any time after I've received and accepted ten characters (so as always, the earlier you submit, the better). The others will be throwaways. Updates to submission status can be read on the summary or in my profile, and the form is on my profile as well.

On to the true **A/N:** I never anticipated I'd write this any time soon, but due to my extreme lack of willpower, here we are. I'm so excited to dig into Gail's story in The Rebound and the Rink! For reference, this takes place nine years after the bulk of tsats, and six after the epilogue. Our little, innocent nine-year-old Gail is now an eighteen-year-old lady with some devious plans up her sleeve…

I'm aiming for this to be waaaaay more light-hearted and fun (less death? Maybe?), but that said, I'm open to seeing how the story unfolds. Hopefully it won't be nearly as long either because I can't do 440k again y'all (please fling me into the sun if I do).

Big shoutout to the Discord who coerced me— er, I mean, _lovingly_ _encouraged me_ to write this! As always, the Discord is open to all members of our community, so if you want to get the inside scoop on some of the wonderful fanfics here, get some sneak-peaks, chat and have shenanigans, PM me for the link! :D

Any questions? Shoot me a message.

And as always, many thanks for reading, and I sincerely hope you'll come along for the fun!

~ GreenWithAwesome

 **EDIT 22nd FEB 2019:** As a wise Canadian pointed out, there is no such thing as hockey halftime. And I need to read hockey rules more carefully lol. This has been fixed.


	2. Plan Kamikaze

"Come in."

Nerves bubbling within, I open the door to a plain, but well-lit office. Curtains part to let in the last of the evening rays, tiny sunbursts spotting the ebony desk, the steel cabinets and long, tall shelves. Only the odd photo frame decorates the room.

My brother sits at his desk, a heap of papers under his pen. I can tell he's concentrating – _not good_ – because sweat beads across his forehead, catches in the scruff of his five o'clock shadow. His long, ink black hair is tied back, and he looks so much older than twenty-nine, but I guess that's what royal life does for you.

Thank goodness I'm not the heir.

He glances up and grins. "Gail, good. You love reviewing tax reforms, don't you?"

"No?"

"I'll take that as a yes. Take a seat. You can help me with them."

I have to stop myself rolling my eyes. My brother, Roy, the King of Illéa.

I shut the door and try not to fumble with my notecards. Appa's Selection was rough, but Roy's was even rougher. Spies, rebel attacks, unfurled secrets, death – it was one disaster after another. I was too young to understand what was going on, but I clearly remember having to evacuate the palace, and the thought sears into my head. It was a time when all that surrounded us was darkness and violence and blood.

Now I just have to convince Roy my Selection will be much, much better. Totally fine.

"Actually, I had a proposal for you." _Proposal_ – word suggested by Zelda.

He sits back in his chair, dark eyes glittering with interest. "Oh?"

I scan Zelda's handwritten notes. _Look bold and assertive, but not above compromise. Don't mumble. Back straight. Keep composed, even if it doesn't go your way. Present your arguments with clarity._

I adjust my stance, tilt my chin up slightly, and say, loudly and clearly, "I would like to have a Selection."

The next card slips into my hand, but before I even open my mouth, Roy speaks.

"No."

That… wasn't in the cards. Literally, Zelda and I hadn't planned for him to reject the idea so quickly (she bet me ten dollars on two minutes, but this wasn't even two _seconds!)._ I even prepared a long speech about the history of the Selection and its importance as a tradition in our family, as if he doesn't already know any of it, just to ease him into the idea.

I blink, too stupefied to do anything for a moment. "What?"

"No," he repeats. "This isn't up for debate."

My cheeks puff. Already with the line of ultimatum? Roy sounds exactly like Omma _,_ but I guess he learnt from the best.

"You haven't even heard what I want to say—"

"I don't need to hear what you want to say," Roy cuts me off. "The answer is no."

I nearly stomp my foot, but that doesn't win arguments. _Keep composed._ I stop, I think – the cards. I skip forth four notes ahead to the arguments against everything and anything Roy could reasonably conjure. Zelda had a gut feeling he'd retaliate, so she devised comebacks for every possible counterpoint he might have.

(I held the pen, was about my contribution.)

"Why?" I ask, resolving to hear him out.

He fixes me a withering stare.

"Are you seriously asking me that? The Southern Rebels made my life a living hell for the several-month period of my Selection, and used it to infiltrate not one, not two, but _three_ spies into our home." He flicks a hand. "Now, if you have nothing else to say—"

"The Southern Rebel threat is over," I pronounce above him, not missing how his hand clenches over his pen. "The only ones left are pockets attempting revivals, which have all failed multiple times and are being monitored by our security. No rebels, no conflict, happy Selection."

That last addition was not a great idea. He darkens – or maybe that's the sun rolling behind the clouds, hiding from our impending argument. Without looking away from me, Roy jams a thumb towards the cane that leans against the desk.

"The Selection ended with me being physically maimed, psychologically traumatised, and my family torn apart." His voice has taken a bitter, final edge to it. "The answer is _no_."

"Okay, but it also brought you to Cami." It's a fleeting hope that mentioning his beloved will bring this conversation back into a positive light. "And to your other Selected, Maeve, Ambrosia, Lilly—"

"And now they all have their scars to show for it." His words twist something in my chest. "It wasn't just me. It was everyone. Even you, even Cami, even Mother, even—"

He chokes back the word. _Dad._ It gurgles the grief inside me that never quite got over his death. It's worse for Roy, who knew him for so much longer than I did, made so many more memories with him.

He feels responsible for Appa's death, in some ways.

Roy pounds his fist against the table, the gavel in a court room. "You will not have a Selection. That's final, Gail. You're dismissed."

It strikes my chest. My plan has failed before it's even risen for morning.

Without another word, I turn on my heel and leave, slamming the door shut. Why did I think Roy would consider it? Why did I think he'd finally let go of his past to give me a future?

I stop, take a breath. _This is fine. Expected, even._ Maybe we didn't anticipate he's dismiss it so quickly, but we _did_ think he wouldn't warm up to it in an instant. And we planned accordingly.

Roy wasn't convinced, and that means I have to move on. To Plan B.

I gather my thoughts and head to the other room down the same hallway. Naomi watches me with her usual hawk gaze, but I don't engage with her quizzical aura right now.

 _Focus_.

The knock rings out.

No response.

On the second, more impatient knock, the door opens, and the queen, Camilla, startles at my appearance.

"Ah, Gail, I'm so sorry. I was just looking over some blueprints."

"That's okay." Truth be told, Cami's always daydreaming over palace architecture, like after all these years, she still can't quite believe she lives here. She's tall – about the same height as Roy and way taller than me. She's Native American, with a warm brown skin tone and dark brown hair that twists into a bun, but instead of a usual dress dictated by palace dress code, she wears an oversized woolly beige sweater, jeggings, and fluffy boots.

Her critical, deep brown gaze studies me like I'm one of her projects, before it darts to Roy's office. "I thought I might have imagined that door slamming."

"It's nothing."

"That's not the face of nothing."

My lips twist.

So begins Plan B.

"Can we talk in private?"

She lets me inside her office – it used to be Omma's office until Cami married Roy – and sits me down on the leather sofas. It's more comforting in here, with the windows slightly ajar, cabinets dusted, old trinkets of Cami's lying around in decoration. Blueprints, especially, litter the corkboard on the far wall.

Cami sinks behind her desk. "What's up?"

 _Focus._ I think of Sheng to tempt my best hurt face out, and oh boy does it warp my face in spades.

"I want to have a Selection, but Roy won't even consider it."

She sags at the word _Selection._ She knows exactly why Roy won't consider it, sympathetic to him and his reasons. But she's sympathetic to me, too.

"This seems… sudden. Why do you want one?"

 _Like I practiced._

"I've always wanted a Selection, Cami. Roy knows that. Ever since I was little, I've wanted my own romantic fairy tale. The lights, the dates, the fun, even the drama. I started a countdown when Roy announced his when I was nine. Did you know it's been three thousand days since then?" I gesture limply to her. "I just want what you two have."

It's partly true, but also partly old feelings resurfacing that aren't quite so. I mean, when I started dating Sheng, all thoughts of a Selection went out the window. I already had my fairy tale, after all.

Or so I thought.

"It wasn't easy, you know," Cami says after a moment. "The rebels, the spies… it took a toll on your brother like you'd never understand. Took a toll on all of us. The death of your father, our friends, colleagues, guards and servants… it has stuck with us for so long. It's not something you can simply… erase."

"I get it. We were all hurt, physically and mentally. But that doesn't mean I shouldn't get to try to find my own happiness."

"He's still paying the price today. Still has nightmares and delusions. Sometimes, when he forgets to take his medicine, I wake up in the middle of the night to his screaming."

I… didn't know that.

"The rebels are as good as extinct," I say anyway, bringing this back. "They can't hurt me or him anymore. The Selection won't bring them back."

She chews her lip at that. "For Roy… he associates them with one another. The Selection brings rebels, you know? He just doesn't want you to go through the same as him."

"What about you?" I snap. "Doesn't he think about how it brought you together?"

"Through trial and tribulation, Gail." Her tone sharpens as mine has. Then, she sighs, and moves over to plonk herself on the armrest of my chair. "I know you want your fairy tale, but for Roy, it wasn't a fairy tale. It was a tragedy."

I see that. I _get_ that. But this is my only play. My only chance to have a fairy tale to appeal to my inner nine-year-old self _and_ make a boy heinously and irrevocably jealous.

Cami senses my stubbornness, rising from the depths of my chest. She pats my shoulders.

"Having said all that, I don't agree with his decision. If you want a Selection, you should be able to have one. I just… want you to understand the weight of such a decision before you make up your mind."

But my mind is already made. Hope flickers in my chest, and I meet her ready gaze as my grin spirals out of control.

"So… you will talk to him? For me?"

She pauses for a moment. "You'll have to agree to strict security measures. It won't be done any other way."

"T-That's totally okay," I say, barely able to stop the giddiness from stretching my cheeks apart.

Cami laughs. "All right. I'll talk to him."

I launch into a hug. She smells of cinnamon, of a big sister I'm so glad to have. She squeezes me tightly before letting go.

"Be on your best behaviour, then," she encourages. "I can't guarantee he'll say yes, but… we'll see."

 _We'll see._ Yes, we will.

There's one thing me asking Roy. It's another for _Cami_ to ask Roy. He can't ever say no to her!

I skip out, feeling a bout of happy accomplishment by the time I return to my quarters. Zelda is in the parlour, pacing, and she stops at the sight of me.

"Well?"

"Plan A failed," I say.

"But it was fool-proof!" She curses. "You kept your cool?"

"I did everything on the notes. Still failed. But since I was there, I already put Plan B into motion."

She nods. "Good. Okay. If this succeeds, we're good."

"And if it doesn't? Then what?"

"Well…" Zelda winces. "I did think of a Plan C."

"Great!" I settle into the sofa. "What is it?"

Zelda sits next to me. "You announce that you're having a Selection, kamikaze-style, on the Capital Report this Friday."

Oh, boy. That _is_ kamikaze.

"But Plan B is sure to work," she reassures at my paling face. "I just know it."

We wait for Plan B to happen. We wait all day – or try to. Zelda is pulled away to her daily tutor session, and I have some duties to do, but not once am I interrupted. I anticipate the moment that Cami will pop her head around the corner and say, "Hey! Roy agreed! You're having a Selection!", but it never happens.

I'm just being impatient. Rome wasn't built in a day, and you can't convince a stubborn mountain to let me have a Selection in a few hours, either. Still, the wait nibbles at me, distracts me from reviewing my schedule for the next month or drafting the foreword of a new charity cookery book.

By dinner, I'm just frustrated. I tromp my way to the dining room and sit in my usual seat two chairs from Roy and Cami on the head table. Without Omma here, there's an empty space between us, but Tay sits next to me, so I have him to keep me company at least.

He's quiet, eating his chicken pie with his fork politely. I'm not sure where he got it from, because I shovel my food down and Roy does pretty much the same.

"Gail, would you come here for a moment?"

I look over – Cami ushers me to her. I scooch and sit in Omma's seat, as Tay looks over with a lost expression.

Cami chuckles. "You can come over too, Tay."

"Okay," he mumbles, placing his fork down and moving into my old seat with a wary expression.

Roy takes a sip of his drink and looks between us. "What's going on?"

Cami smiles. "Well, I thought now would be a good opportunity to discuss Gail's Selection."

I almost spit out my last bite.

When she said, _discuss it with Roy,_ I thought she meant when I wasn't here. When there's no opportunity for him to use me as a scapegoat.

Roy's hand freezes before he puts his fork down. His expression is unreadable, but deadly.

"Gail's Selection," he echoes, fixing me a look. My lungs parch.

"Yes," says Cami. "She's eighteen—"

"Too young."

"And that's only _a year_ younger than you and I were for your Selection." She prods Roy in the arm. "If Gail thinks she's ready, then I think we should let her decide. It is her life after all."

"Yeah," I echo flatly. "It _is_ my life."

"Aaaand no," Roy says. "Honey, Gail, I love you both, but I'm not moving on this." Then he presses his gaze on me. "And _you_ shouldn't have asked Cami to ask me, because it won't work."

"Oh come on. It's tradition! People are already asking when I'll announce mine—"

"Which is _never_. Traditions change. Do I really need to explain, _again_ , why I won't condone it?"

"You made yourself clear earlier."

"Then _why_ are you still pestering me about it?"

My shoulders rise. "Because you're being unreasonable!"

"Unreasonable?" he snaps, voice bordering on a yell. "Is caring about the safety of my family and loved ones _unreasonable,_ now?"

"No, but what _is_ unreasonable is that you're going to stop _me_ and make decisions for _me_ because _you_ are afraid!"

"Of course I'm afraid! You don't remember what happened!"

" _Hey,"_ Cami snaps. We both silence immediately. Her voice is calmer. "There's no need to shout."

Roy scoffs. "That wasn't shouting. It was talking. Very loudly." He looks between me and Cami. "So you've both decided to gang up on me on this?"

"Not _gang,_ " Cami insists. "But Gail is right. You shouldn't make this decision for her, not on something as monumental as this. She should be afforded the same opportunity to find a partner."

"And you can't find one amongst the rich lords that come to schmooze me every other week?"

My cheeks puff. "Why didn't _you_ find one with all those girls you were making out with at the clubs you used to frequent?"

His face goes completely red – _totally_ worth it – but now I know I crossed the line.

"This is _not_ the same—"

"You see how ridiculous you sound, then—!"

He bangs his fists on the table, the noise sending the entire dining room into silence. Then he recoils and stands.

"The answer is _no._ That's final. Do _not_ ask me again."

He lumbers out, and the doors shut behind him. The silence that follows is as palatable as this chicken pie.

Cami sighs, then fixes me a _look._ "That went well."

Tay scooches over and clutches my arm. "Why is Roy angry?"

"He's not angry."

Much.

"I don't think he'll ever bend on this one, Gail," Cami says. "Maybe… in a few more years."

"How many more years does he need? It was nearly a decade ago!"

"I know, but…" She sighs, then rises. "I'll go talk to him."

She rushes off, leaving me and Tay alone at the head table. I fall back on my chair and flatten my hands against my cheeks, stomach churning.

Plan B is… not going well. Not going anywhere so badly it's going _backwards._

Tay prods his food with a fork. "When is _Omma_ coming back?"

"She's on a tour of Seoul. She won't be back for a few weeks."

I can't predict what Omma would say, because it could be either extreme. Siding with Roy, because she was there too, during the rebel invasion of the palace, or siding with me, because the Selection worked so well for her and she wants that happiness for me.

Either way, she's not here to support or defy me. I'm on my own.

If Roy hasn't bowed now, and Cami can't convince him, then he's never going to bow. No point giving him another ten years to do it. This Selection cannot wait.

Sheng's face flashes in my mind, and my fists clench over my dish.

Since Plan B hasn't worked, there's only our last resort left.

Time to enact Plan Kamikaze.

* * *

The studio is bustling with people by the time I arrive. The bleachers perch high, almost to the ceiling, and allow the audience a brilliant view of the lights, set and behind the scenes. Camera tracks weave throughout the space, and it's a fight to dodge the runners that hold sloshing coffee cups or producer schedules.

After make-up adjusts my face, I go to my normal spot at the front, next to Roy and Cami. Both talk in hushed whispers and don't acknowledge me when I sit down. With them occupied, and Tay absent to stay with the childminder (too scared of the crowds), I'm left to stew in my thoughts alone.

Probably for the best, since, you know, tonight's the night I announce my Selection.

My hands knot together. Zelda made me rehearse my speech, and now that I'm here, I'm glad she did. She's back in her family's quarters, waiting to watch the Report on television. I'm sure she'll have a lengthy essay afterwards on how I could improve next time.

My distracted gaze drifts to Roy. After that dinner, I dropped the subject of the Selection completely, and he hasn't mentioned it in the three days since. Probably thinking I bent to his point of view.

My hands itch to smooth my skirt hem. _Stay focused._ That's all I can do.

When the hum dies down and the Report goes live, Romilda van der Voort, Report Host, glides into the picture to introduce the week. She dazzles with her sequin dress, sweeping down her diaphanous frame, and her afro seems to glitter under the lights. Even as old as she must be now – fifty something? – she is still easily the most beautiful person in the room. She was host for Appa and Roy's Selections, and it's my hope she'll stay for mine, too.

"Now, I'm sure His Majesty will be able to tell us more about it. King Roy, if you will."

I tune back, and Romilda gives the stage to Roy, who stands up to organise a fan of notecards on the podium.

"Thank you, Romilda." All _business as usual,_ says his tone. "I'm thrilled to see positive results of my and Lady Carter's programme in Zuni. The town hall was a brilliant success and has given us more than enough ideas. Lady Carter is particularly interested on improving local playgrounds for children."

Clapping. I quickly follow up. What were they talking about?

"There have been reports of an increase of crime in the area, Your Majesty," says Romilda. "However, Prime Minister Wafiya Ahmed has expressed a notable lack of concern on the matter. Do you echo this sentiment?"

"Yes," Roy says immediately, staring at the camera. "We've been keeping an eye on areas of note with considerable interest, and will continue to monitor accordingly, though it should be noted that crime rates have fallen considerably over the last three years."

"Do you suspect another pocket of the Southern Rebels are behind the sudden spike?"

The question throws him off for just a moment. Imperceptible to most, but I know Roy well enough. Even their name can unspool his composure.

Nonetheless, he says, "I do not. Defence Secretary Alexis Palladino may be able to speak more on the matter."

I tune out again. Even since the instalment of the new constitutional monarchy, Roy has always been busy. Which is weird, given that he's supposed to have less to do now with the prime minister and cabinet governing the politics of the country. Appa and Omma must've never stopped during their reign, when they were absolute rulers of Illéa.

He speaks again. "That is all the announcements I have to make today. Thank you for listening, Illéa."

Romilda quickly steps up. "Then that concludes our weekly Capital Report."

My adrenaline kicks in. It's now, or never. _Stay calm._

"I have an announcement to make!"

My shrill is loud enough to catch everyone's attention, and I rise and pace to the front. Startled, Roy furrows his eyebrows, whereas Romilda, who is far more practiced at being composed in the face of a surprise, clasps her hands together.

"Of course. Whatever would you like to add, Your Highness?"

Nothing in the teleprompter. Nothing prepared in hand. I move to stand at the podium, face the cameras that zoom in on my face, and procure my best smile.

 _Like Zelda wrote. Like I rehearsed._

"Good evening, Illéa. As you all know, there are many traditions within my family line that have continued since the very beginning of our reign. Though there have been recent structural changes to our operation, there is always one fundamental tradition that I would like to honour and cherish as I enter adulthood in finality. That tradition, as you may have guessed, is the Selection."

A ripple of murmurs behind me. I can't see Roy, but I hear absolutely nothing, so he must be working overtime to keep his cool.

"The Selection has been very successful for my family. It brought my mother, Ji-Yu Kim, to my late father, Merrick. It brought my wonderful sister-in-law and queen, Camilla Daugherty, to my somewhat-wonderful older brother, Roy." A few chuckles. _Good one, Zel._ "And though the Selection has also shrouded my family in tragedy for many years, it has also forged stronger than ever bonds to ourselves, to each other, and most importantly, to this country.

"As such, I would like to honour the tradition by officially announcing my own Selection. We are still preparing the details of this," translation: we don't have permission to do it yet, "so please be patient for information in the coming weeks. However, I can tell you with certainty that it will be open to gentlemen aged between eighteen and twenty across Illéa.

"Thank you very much for watching. This is Princess Gail, and I hope you have a wonderful evening."

The cameras cut immediately. My heart leaps with fulfilment, satisfaction, and hundred joyous emotions I can't name, and I clasp my hands together in delight.

"Yay!"

Then breath hisses into my ear.

" _Out,"_ Roy says. " _Now."_

And all my happiness drains like pus from a zit.

I am _so_ busted.

Mechanically, I follow Roy as he marches out of the studio in absolute silence. Only until he shuts the door on a nearby drawing room does he speak.

"You are _so_ grounded, Gail Su-Jin."

"You can't ground me!" I say. "I'm not five!"

"No, but you _are_ my responsibility while Mother is away! And you just did _exactly_ what I told you not to do, multiple times!" He fixes me with a dark look, and finally I see how his face reddens, how his features contort. "What part of _no_ didn't you understand? Was it the fact that _no_ means the opposite of _yes_?"

"The part I didn't understand," I shrill over him, "is the part where you dictate my life!"

"I dictate your life for your own safety!"

"For _your_ own peace of mind, more like!"

Roy blows out a frustrated growl and paces.

"You are going to make a public statement apologising to the country for misleading them about a Selection that is _not going to happen_."

"It's too late. People will be talking about it. It _has_ to happen now."

"No, it does not," he snaps. "You know what? You've proven to be stubbornly bull-headed about this, and frankly I can't trust you to do it. I'll just have to make the announcement myself."

"You wouldn't—!"

Roy brushes passed me and heads for the door.

"The Southern Rebels have disbanded! Why are you still so afraid?"

He whips around so fast, expression on fire.

"They're _gone,_ are they?" He laughs mockingly. "God, Gail. Do you really think I tell you _everything_ about the political situation of this country?"

"Wait. What does that mean?"

"I was there when they shot Elise."

I take a step back. Elise, his former Selected. I barely remember her now.

"Yes, but—"

"I watched them put a bullet through Katrina's head. I watched them tear through my foot. I watched them put a gun to my head, to Cami's head, to Gemima's head. I watched _Appa_ _die_." He stops short of me, fists clenching by his side. "The sheer might of the Southern Rebels brought upheaval to this country the likes of which have never been seen, and have since not yet recovered from. So yes, I am scared. Yes, I am afraid of what they can do. And you are completely, _despicably_ ignorant if you are not."

I know the story. I've seen their documentary about it – the one with the stupid name _._ I know the stories of the Selected Elise, of the socialite Katrina, of my old childminder Lanna, of the numerous guards and servants and innocent casualties. I know how Appa died. Their names are branded into my mind.

But the Southern Rebels were eradicated on the same day it all happened.

"They are _gone,_ Roy," I say. "How many years have to pass before you realise?"

He throws up his hands. "Those thefts? The sudden increase in crime? Guess what those people have claimed to be motivated by!"

But that can't be. "You said on the Report—"

"Of course I said that! I didn't want to panic people!" He half-turns. "I've had numerous reports of looting and fighting and anti-monarchist messages for months now, all claiming to do it in the name of a resurgence. A rebel resurgence. They're trying to reform the Southern Rebels." He stares at me. "And you may have just tipped the scales to start a new revolution."

* * *

 **A/N:** hurrdurr gail you fish, listen to your brother /shitpostmode

Thank you for all your submissions so far. I am so thrilled to see such positive responses to the story! As of the posting of this chapter, I am still closed to new submissions, but I may have room in future, so should I open subs again, my profile is the best place to look. Thank you to everyone who has already sent me their characters, and if you've reserved and haven't sent me anything yet, I will probably need them within the next few weeks (as you can imagine, it's hard to write future chapters where I don't have all the characters yet lol). That said, I'm trying to space my chapters out enough to give submitters time to digest and write their forms, so if you need some leeway just let me know.

I hope this chapter gives you a good look into Roy for the first time, if you're a newcomer, or in his elder years, if you're a tsats veteran. Still sassy but... one Stressed Boy (TM). And to Cami as well, who, spoiler, sort of won his Selection (shoutout to GingersnapBeat for not immediately retracting Cami to put her in the hands of a nicer author lol). Don't forget to send me some Opinions, please!

As always, I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and thank you for reading! :D

~ GWA

Also, I am official bringing back the Next Time Teasers, which are, essentially, a line taken completely out of context from the next chapter for you to mull upon.

Next Time Teaser: "The Selection is going to be so PG with him around!"


	3. Politically Engaged

The Southern Rebels cannot possibly be back.

"But…" I'm too jumbled too reply properly. "But _why?_ It doesn't make sense. We eliminated the castes. We opened town halls and meetings. We gave the Southern Rebels what they wanted. Why would they return?"

Roy sighs. The drawing room seems to have become smaller, claustrophobic, with our yelling and arguing. Now it expands like the exhale of breath, until a huge chasm cracks between us.

"All we did, Gail, was take away the label. Eight, Seven, Six, Five… everyone could agree that they were just arbitrary boundaries dictated by career and income. Taking them away made many people happy, sure, but it didn't eradicate poverty or homelessness in the blink of an eye." He fixes me a glare. "Announcing your Selection will be seen as a diversion of our time, money, resources, and most importantly, _attention_."

I think back to what Sheng briefly touched upon when he broke up with me. _There are no castes in name, but there will always be a class system._ He's right, because of freakin' course he is. I just didn't realise how deeply some people's hatred could be.

There will always be people at the bottom, and always people at the top. That's how hierarchical society functions. Still, it doesn't ease the guilt that scampers through my veins.

"But you said it yourself. We can't eliminate these things in the blink of an eye. It takes time. My Selection has nothing to do with that."

"They won't see it like that. Things have improved, just not at the speed anyone would like. We've been trying— god, _I've_ been trying— unemployment is the lowest it's been for nine years. And yet…"

Roy takes a moment to take a deep breath. Probably to keep his anxiety at bay.

"You really want to have a Selection?"

I face him, eyes sparkling. "Yes."

"Are you _sure?"_

"Why are you interrogating me now? I've already made the announcement."

"Because… because maybe we can make this work. Maybe we can make a deal together."

The sudden change of mind has my gears turning, but I'm not going to explode the tracks of his train of thought.

"I'm listening."

"Mother once told me that image is important. To be relatable to your people is key to winning their hearts. You're the Princess of Illéa. People absolutely adore you."

My insides fold. "And?"

"And we should capitalise on it. The cute and sweet Princess Gail, falling in love for the first time for everyone to see. It'll remind everyone that though you have a title, you're still a person, and you're still kind and caring."

If he knew about Sheng, Roy would _freak._

"So you want to bolster our image using my Selection?"

"It's been done before. Many times. The Selection is the perfect distraction. Except you won't be distracting. You will be proving to the world the work we are doing by interacting with the people directly with your Selected. You will be the face of our endeavours to make this country a better place."

I'm not sure how I feel about this, suddenly.

Zelda was right in that my Selection is my rebound. I never planned for it to mean anything this deeply, or have such a huge impact on not only the country, but me and my family too. I just want to forget Sheng.

Roy stares determinedly at me, waiting for an answer. This is huge, to take this on.

"What sort of things would you have the Selected and I do?"

"Appear at the town halls for a start," he says. "It'll reflect positively on us if you are politically engaged. Other things could be providing relief, doing charity work, volunteering, philanthropism. Just showing that you care."

"But what if I don't want to do that?" Only after I say that do I realise how bad that sounds.

Roy was always the heir, always the one that needed to know these things, whereas Tay and I just looked cute in photos. It's not that I don't care. It's that I don't know _how._

But Roy understands, and snorts. "Well, I never wanted you to have a Selection in the first place, so if you do this we'll call it even." He crosses his arms, but his face softens. "Gail, you're eighteen now. If you're old enough for a Selection, you're old enough to do your part in your role as princess."

"But I was never trained to do any of this," I counter. "You were because you're first born. When your first child is born, it will be the same."

He tenses. "Yes. Right. That's not the point though." He kneels until he's level with me. "I know you want your fairy tale Selection, but as things stand right now, it would be damn right foolish _not_ to use it to promote a positive image of us."

Knowing enough of my history, there probably wasn't one Selection that wasn't manipulated for political agenda. Secretly I hoped mine could be the first that didn't. Wishful thinking.

Roy takes another breath. "I also want to have a say in every decision made about this Selection's operation. Security measures. Who we let through, how candidates are filtered. Every single member of staff."

"If you get to choose that, then I want to be allowed to go on dates outside the palace grounds."

"If you agree to a large security contingent."

I rub my temple. The costs seem so high. Is it even worth it?

"Are we in an accord?" he asks.

"You can just say _do you agree_."

"Are we _in an_ _accord?"_ he insists with a shrill voice.

I could say no, but then Roy will leave this room, turn the cameras back on himself and embarrass me to the nation about my naïve, mistaken Selection.

Being the cute princess? I can do. Helping people? I can do.

Forgetting Sheng? I must.

And if Roy feels better with everything under his control, so be it. If he wants a hand in every decision made? So long as I get my Selection, so be it.

Rules are meant to be broken, after all.

"All right."

He grins. "That's my peanut." He ruffles my hair.

"Hey!" I swat. "Don't call me peanut!"

"You're always going to be my little peanut, peanut," he teases. "Then I give you my blessing and, more importantly, my _permission_ to hold your Selection. My first act to decree shall be that each submitted entry undergoes a criminal background check and pass an interview."

Not unreasonable, so I nod. I don't want a rebel amongst my Selected.

By the time we hash out details about security, Cami finds us and whisks Roy away to another matter. I wait for a moment to process the last hour.

It's really happening. My Selection.

Giddiness escapes me in the form of a long _squee._

And yet, the next thing I do is rush back to my bedroom to check my phone.

Just as I expected. A text from Chocolate Ninja, sent the moment the Report ended.

 _You're having a Selection?_

I slide my phone into my pocket. It's a satisfying feeling to leave him on read.

* * *

To no one's surprise, the media exploded with reaction to my sudden announcement. Excitement builds like a slow intake of breath, holds in anticipation for the names to be chosen from the bowls. I revel in the attention, both on my social media and from the press, who have hounded the front gates of the palace since I told the world about my Selection.

On the next week's Report, I give more details as to what my Selection would entail. Gents aged between eighteen and twenty must first submit their form to their nearest province office. Should they pass initial background checks, they'd then be required to have a short interview, kind of like when you go to get a visa, and a psychometric test, to further thin the pool. _To weed out the weirdos,_ Zelda said, which albeit not politely put, isn't exactly wrong. Only passing that are they entered into the random lottery for their province.

I don't fail to notice how many people this will require, and feel warm inside when _The Daily Illéan_ makes note of how many jobs it creates. Already, I'm a philanthropist, and the Selection hasn't even started.

"On to the matter of your Selection Co-ordinator."

Cami and I sit in her office with a to-do list as long as her desk. Her usual role here is the palace's architect, since that was her profession before winning the Selection, but since my announcement she fawns over me to help, and judging by the indomitable smile that widens with every box ticked, she's as giddy as I am to participate in another Selection.

Today she wears a long, dark blue dress that fans out on the floor. Not too formal, but enough that her regality is striking, even from afar.

"Will it be Sashi? Roy's Selection Co-ordinator?"

"No, as she's touring Europe on her motorcycle. She won't be around for this one."

Which is annoying, because Sashi was just the right amount of chill that I could easily get away with so many things.

"Okay, well, don't leave me in suspense," I say. "Please don't tell me Roy will take the role himself."

She laughs. "I would never allow that to be inflicted upon you, Gail." She juggles her head. "But we discussed it at length, and decided that instead of one person, we split the role. One could be the Selected's personal guide, another can teach them history, another etiquette, another politics, and so on."

I try not to let the wave of bitterness at their making decisions _without_ me sting, but it needles the back of my neck.

"That's a good idea, but who did he choose to be the main co-ordinator?"

She winces. "Don't freak."

 _Now_ I start to freak.

" _Who?"_

Cami puts down her pen. "Rudy."

Oh _boy._ Mister Rudy? Roy's valet and best friend and definitely the type of person to snitch about the mine and the Selected's drama to him?

Also, _Zelda's freakin' dad?_ She will hit the roof when she finds out.

"You can't choose him!" I protest. "He's so…"

"Uptight?" Cami smirks at my hesitation. "Strict as he may be, he's one of the most competent men I know. He knows exactly what it's like to feel out of place, and I think he'd be able to provide them a lot of wisdom when they need it."

True. Rudy, though often cynical, _is_ pretty wise – it must be the _dad_ ness about him. But Zelda already feels suffocated as it is. With him there, she won't feel like this Selection has given her any breathing space at all.

"But Zelda—"

"—is not involved in this process."

"She's my best friend! I can't have her _dad_ involved in my Selection."

Cami raises an eyebrow. "Why not? Were you two planning something too inappropriate for him to know about?"

"No, but… come _on._ Would you have wanted your uncle to oversee Roy's Selection?"

Cami's parents died when she was three, and she was taken in by her aunt, uncle, and three cousins. Her Uncle Jefferson is even stricter than Rudy, and about as fun as a wet blanket.

(But don't tell Cami I said that.)

Cami seems taken aback before shutting her guppy mouth. "Roy trusts Rudy with his life. Rudy has already agreed to it. Do you have another suggestion?"

"How about literally anyone else?"

Cami only shoots me a glare and I shrink slightly. "Fine! Fine. But I don't have to like it."

Cami scribbles this down, and I watch with increasing dread as the decision is set in stone. _Sorry, Zel,_ I think to myself, hoping she'll understand.

"What about the other roles?" I ask.

"Romilda has enthusiastically offered to teach etiquette," she continues. "I will teach politics. We're not so sure on history, so we might outsource for that."

So we can _outsource_ for a history teacher, but not for the Selection Co-ordinator? I roll my lips but don't say anything else. The decision has already been made anyway, and like I already agreed, Roy will take the reins on organising the Selection's less entertaining matters.

"Another thing," Cami says, snapping me from my reverie. "Roy wants you to participate in all lessons and activities as the Selected do."

" _What_?" I say. "But why?"

"Who was the first King of Illéa?"

The question riles me. "Gregory Illéa."

"And his brother?"

I blank.

Cami smirks. "You see? You're not even up-to-date on your own history."

"I don't need to learn any of this."

"If you're having a Selection and taking your role as princess more seriously, then you do." She fixes me a stern look. " _Politically engaged_ , remember?"

Zelda won't be pleased. Now she can't use me an excuse anymore.

And I definitely can't spend all day watching ice hockey.

As Cami writes this down, I seriously start considering that this is no longer _my_ Selection, but a culmination of Roy's efforts that happen to have me in the spotlight. Cami tells me about food tasters to check for poison, an increase in bodyguards that will follow me everywhere I go. Enacting a freakin' _curfew_ , like I really am five years old again.

By the time I leave I'm exhausted, and I haven't even reaped the names yet.

Zelda is in the parlour room when I return, but doesn't look up when I sink into the sofa and groan. Bellona Strike is on TV, but not even her awesomeness can pull me out of this despair.

"Is your Selection sucking as much as I suspected?" she asks, not bothering to look up.

"Oh yeah." I sit up and hold my breath for her reaction. "Rudy has been appointed my Selection Co-ordinator."

Zelda freezes. Then, as robotically as possible, she pauses the TV and turns with agonising slowness to face me. Her expression is unreadable, but only a straw's weight away from tipping into outrage.

"Please tell me you're joking."

"It wasn't my decision."

"But he's the most uptight guy in existence, ever, in the universe!" she shrills. "The Selection is going to be so PG with him around!"

"And what exactly," I say, smirking, "do you think I'll be doing?"

"Being very _un_ -PG." She swings around and plays the TV again, but her fingers twitch over the remote. "I am your wingwoman. How am I gonna' do that if Rudy's there?"

"He won't be around _all_ the time," I say, more to comfort her than me. "Just to keep an eye on the Selected. That's all."

"Yeah, and he'll want to keep an eye on _me_ , too, like the helicopter parent he is."

My phone buzzes. Zelda snatches it from me before I can even read it, and sneers at the screen before handing it back to me.

"Why haven't you blocked him yet?"

I take the phone back. Chocolate Ninja.

 _I submitted my form this morning._

"Because." Judging by Zelda's face, she's not satisfied with the explanation, so I sigh and add, "Just because we broke up, doesn't mean I'm going to completely cut him out of my life. He's still our family's stable hand, after all."

"Okay, but he's still texting you like everything's peachy, and you haven't replied to him once."

Like he read her mind, another message flies in.

 _Are you going to blank me forever?_

 _Yes,_ I want to write. _You broke up with me for the stupidest reason. You deserve it._

Instead, I take a deep breath. Because of our break up, I've visited the stables less than I normally do. Senior Mah will probably be confused, let alone my poor mare Unicorn.

It couldn't hurt to make another trip. Just once, to finally put him behind me.

When I get up, Zelda whips around.

"You're not, are you?"

"I haven't seen Unicorn in so long."

She leers at me through narrowed lids, but relents. "Fine, but if you come back and say you're back together, I will just have to take your place in the Selection and have all the hot guys to myself."

"Hah, hah." I leave her to watch.

As always, Naomi shadows me. This time, she doesn't make note of my hurried steps, and disappears into the shadows when I arrive at the stables. It's a miracle no one has figured out why I come here so frequently.

Luckily, Senior Mah is out in the gardens exercising one of the new horses, and Sheng is alone. He stiffens at my appearance, before looking left and right. No move to come closer.

"I submitted my form."

"I know."

"Then why are you here?"

"For Unicorn. You know, my horse?" I stroke her head, but keep my eyes on Sheng. "But I just wanted to let you know, thank you."

He raises his eyebrows. "For what?"

"For breaking up with me and leading me onto the path of the Selection."

"… Oh."

"I finally get to do something I've always wanted, and meet so many new people. I'm really excited." But mostly, I'm smug. Smug that Sheng's face is beaten with defeat. "Whoever _I_ choose to win will be the luckiest man on earth."

He doesn't say anything for a moment.

Then, softly, "You're right. They will be."

My heart blunders.

Stupid heart.

Unicorn whinnies, but without seeing to her more, I leave.

* * *

Two weeks later, and it's the Report that will introduce me to my Selected.

The studio is bustling. Anyone who can squeeze a connection to get here has, and the audience is filled to the brim with chitters of excitement. Socialites, celebrities, even a few curious politicians. I try not to pay their anticipated glances any mind as I weave through to reach my family. Omma is still not back from Seoul, so once again it'll be me, Roy, Cami and Tay, the only one currently present, who distracts himself from the lights with a Rubix cube.

He looks up and then shrivels. "I'm nervous…"

" _You're_ nervous?" I ruffle his hair. "Scamp, all you have to do is sit there."

He thinks for a moment. I don't think he wants to solve the cube, not really, but the whacky puzzle keeps his fingers busy, and they twitch over the colours. "Still nervous."

The stage is set. Behind Romilda's trademark chaise lounge and podium, thirty-five huge glass bowls sit on stands, each stocked with what must be a hundred, a thousand slips of folded paper. A name is written on each slip, along with his profession.

When I was young, Roy let me choose his Selected from the bowls live on television. I was small back then, but now, despite being a whole lot taller, the bowls seem to have an ominous, ever-present quality to them. They fill every inch of my vision. They steal the spotlight away from the crowds, from my family.

Just me and those names.

I peer at the second bowl to the right. It'll be marked _ANGELES_ on the front. One of those slips of paper has Sheng's name on it.

 _It's fine,_ I tell myself, settling into my chair. _He will never be chosen._

A make-up girl appears briefly to iron out the last blemishes from my face and take a hair brush to my frizzing locks. As time ticks down to the moment we're on air, my heart pounds faster and faster, and I have to reach beneath my chair to grab a water bottle too many times.

"Drink any more and you'll be bursting to pee during the name reap."

Dressed in a fancier pinstripe suit, Roy lumbers next to me with his cane. For the Report, he tends not to wear his feet inserts, instead preferring to hold his bespoke cane, the staff black as night, the appendage polished gold. I always wonder if it is a reminder to the viewers at home of the day… or a reminder to himself. It was during a live broadcast that he lost his toes, after all.

I place the bottle beneath my chair. "I'm fine."

"Nervous," says Tay, and this time, he's not talking about himself.

Roy ruffles his hair before sitting and resting his cane on the floor. "That's perfectly normal. I was a wreck when I saw my Selected for the first time."

"I'm fine," I say again.

"Yeah, and I'm a donut."

"You're a donut?" says Tay. "But you can't be. You're Roy."

Cami comes up to us at just the right moment. "You can be Roy _and_ a donut, Tay." She fixes Roy a smirk before sitting next to him, regal in her own dark green dress that splays to the floor in gentle waves.

Roy nudges her. "Well then, you _married_ a donut, so who's the real loser here?"

"Live in two!" someone yells, and my back straightens like I've been shocked with a rod. To my dismay, Roy, Cami and Tay notice.

Cami reaches over to pet my shoulders. "Relax. It'll be all right."

"What was it like?" The question comes out suddenly. "To see your face up there, representing Belcourt?"

Cami sits back to ponder. "My cousins screamed, but I stared at the TV, dead-eyed, for the remainder of the Report. Only when the phone rang afterwards did I snap out of it."

How will each of today's Selected react?

 _How would Sheng react?_

 _How would I?_

I shake away the thought. Who cares about Sheng? It will never happen.

Finally, the fanfare plays, and I sweep off my turmoil and smile. _Cute, innocent Princess Gail_ , the part of me I must amplify for this Selection. Romilda glides into view in her glitziest dress yet, as fluid as mercury, and introduces the Report.

As usual, the podium goes first to Roy. I pay closer attention than before, noting his happy grin that speaks of the wonders the monarchy are doing. No mention of any rebel resurgence. Say what I will about Roy, he sure can make it seem like everything is fine.

"That's all from me. I'm sure you're all hankering for the next part." He passes the stage back to Romilda, who grins so much her white teeth blind.

"Thank you, Your Majesty. We shall not delay any longer! It's time to talk Princess Gail's Selection!" She gestures from me to the lounger. "Your Highness, would you please join me?"

I go sit. Romilda plants herself next to me, ever the dazzling host. It's hard not to mirror her authentically infectious smile.

"In each of these bowls lies the names of thousands upon thousands of gentlemen who submitted their names to Princess Gail's Selection. Only thirty-five can be chosen, and only one can win. I know this is a broad question, Your Highness, but," she pans to me, "how are you feeling?"

"I'm fine," I say, grinning as my chest palpitates. "I don't know what to expect, but I'm really excited to meet everyone!"

"That's the spirit!" Romilda bounces on the chair and turns to Cami. "Your Majesty, Queen Camilla, any tips for Her Highness?"

"Be open-minded," she offers. "You never know who might surprise you in the best way."

"And Your Majesty, Roy," she says with a layer of teasing, "what advice can you offer to the gentlemen whose names will be called this evening?"

"I hope your photos are good!"

I giggle, as does everyone.

"But seriously," he says, once the laughter has died down. "Relax. Your life is about to change, but don't stress about it."

Good advice.

"Then let's jump into it!" Romilda stands and gestures to the bowls.

I rise with her. "Actually, Romilda, I would really like it if Tay could chose the names for me."

"Oh?" she says, before regarding him. "Prince Tay? Would you like to do that?"

Tay shrinks immediately, shaking his head. The crowd laughs and _awww_ s.

Roy grabs his cane with a flourish. "Then I will valiantly take Tay's place." He comes to my side. "If it's tradition for a sibling to choose, I guess there's only me left!"

"Notice how you were my _last_ choice," I quip, earning another nudge from him.

"How fitting!" Romilda croons, as Roy goes for a bowl. _BELCOURT,_ it says, probably in honour of Cami's province. "Roy and Gail choose the Selected for each other's Selections!"

He sticks his hand in, swirls the papers, before finally plucking the first name and handing it to Romilda. Cameras zoom close to my face. I can see the images of the Selected on a screen just behind.

Romilda clears her throat.

"Representing Belcourt is Jacob Lance McKenzie, an insurance broker!"

Jacob Lance's portrait flashes up. I try to memorise the lines of his face, but the portrait drops to quickly.

Roy hustles over to _MIDSTON,_ for Omma's province, next.

"And next, representing Midston," calls Romilda, "we have Nicholas Jacobs, law student!"

Nicholas' portrait blazes more than Jacob Lance's could ever hope. He has an intense look, and coupled with the high chin and glimmer in his eye, it's a striking image. Yet when he disappears from the screen, I've already forgotten his eye colour, his features.

So the cycle continues. I quickly find that making the faces stick into my head is the hardest part. A Jasper appears next, a municipal intern from Carolina. Then it's a Valerian from Lakedon, with smouldering dark grey eyes and a grin that's larger than life. Silas, Soren, Elliot. Maximus, Parker, Avian. Names and faces blur until they all look the same. The only one who is vaguely familiar so far is one Maurice Elsmore, who I can't quite put my finger on. A celebrity, maybe?

"From Hansport," Romilda announces, "is Levi Song, a K-Pop idol!"

My eyes round as Levi's face appears on screen. I don't listen to K-Pop very often, but I'd have been living under a rock if I didn't know him and his world-famous band, LH². A famous K-Pop idol entered _my_ Selection? I flush at the thought. Levi's face is as handsome as I'd expect, all thick bronze hair, a sensuous smile, and eyes that burn red and gold and purple, like a thousand jewels.

(Well, they're actually a dark brown, but let me fangirl, okay?)

Gasps rip from the audience as well, followed by sharp chitters that blunder across my skin like fingers over piano keys. _He'll be one to look out for,_ the whispers say. _And he'll be one I have to look out for, too._

After what seems a lifetime, and thirty-four names are called, Roy shuffles over to the Angeles bowl. "Last, but never least, Angeles!" His hand dives deep, rummaging for a good five seconds before selecting a slip of paper.

So many new faces and so many new names have unravelled my nerves. I can barely hold my neutral smile when Roy hands the paper to Romilda. I'm not sure why this is stressing me out so much, but married with the excitement that charges through me, my emotions are churning. _Last one,_ I think, easing in my chair. _And it won't be Sheng._

Romilda opens it up and clears her throat, one last time.

"And finally, representing our wonderful province of Angeles," she pauses, and her eyes round, "is Sheng Mah, a stable hand at the palace of Illéa!"

Nothing can stop my smile from dropping.

No.

No _way._

But when Sheng's face appears on screen, excruciatingly handsome and brooding as he is, I know it can't be an illusion or a trick of my weary head.

It's against luck, against all odds, against the very nature of the universe.

But the one boy I sought to forget… has become one of my Selected.

* * *

 **A/N:** bwahahaah, can you imagine making Gail's life easy? No? Me neither! :D Hope you enjoyed the chapter!

Finally I can talk about Sheng being Selected lol. How will Gail deal with this development? Find out next time...

 **Submissions are now officially closed.** Thank you to everyone who has sent their characters, and I'm sorry if you missed out. Reserved peeps, _please_ send me your forms, as I'm very much struggling to finish writing Chapter 7 without your input. I'm gonna' bump the cut-off to **Wednesday** **27th February** , but it has been three weeks now and I cannot leave it open forever. If I don't get a completed form by then, your character will not appear. Likewise, people who have sent incomplete forms, **please send me opinions/ character development/ other things you left blank** by that date as well.

Lastly, update schedule! Like tsats, I will be operating under a "within two weeks" schedule. Normally I update every Sunday, but if life gets in the way, I have another week to update. This timetable allows me enough breathing room to write the next chapters (and have a life lol), and you will be guaranteed a chapter within two weeks. :)

Many thanks for reviewing and reading!

~ GWA

Next Time Teaser: " _THE SELECTION WAS HACKED. NO WAY. NONONONONONO."_


	4. Second Chance

Cameras shoot towards my face. My shock, my horror, all captured for everyone to enjoy.

I quickly rein back my expression and smile, then clap, but my insides are churning.

 _Sheng. In my Selection._

I glance towards the Angeles bowl. What are the chances? Did someone sabotage the bowl?

"A familiar face, perhaps?" Romilda says ominously, but she doesn't interrogate me for answers. Instead, she places the paper down and raises her arms. "And those are your thirty-five Selected, Illéa! Congratulations to all chosen, and may the best man win. You will all be contacted shortly to begin preparations.

"Your Highness." Romilda turns back to me. "Any thoughts so far?"

"Er." Not even I could hide my reaction, so everyone must know I know Sheng by now. "Well, I know the last one!"

"Sheng Mah? Yes, I have seen him around as well!"

"He takes good care of my horse, Unicorn." I clear my throat. _Stop talking about him._ "As for the others, we'll have to wait and see, but I look forward to meeting them all when they come to the palace for the first time."

"Which will be in two weeks' time!" Romilda is back to host, hyping the Selection for the audience, for the viewers at home. "And we'll be there to capture every detail. Thank you for tuning in, Illéa. We'll see you next week!"

I wave, smiling, cheeks ablaze with embarrassment, until the _live_ button flashes off. Chatter explodes around me, and I drop my head, drop my smile. My hands shake.

I had a plan to use the Selection to forget Sheng ever existed. Now it will shove him back in my face.

Even worse, he and I will be expected to _court_ one another. Like everything is normal.

Before anyone can accost me, I zip over to the Angeles bowl. _What are the chances? What are the chances?_ I fish a name out. Not Sheng. Another. Not Sheng. I keep going for five, ten names, and all of them are not Sheng.

There was no tampering here. This was pure, sheer, _foul_ luck.

Roy, Cami and Tay rise from their seats as I sit back down, try to cool off. I can just eliminate him from the start, right? He'll go in the first mass elimination. My chest tightens at the thought.

Yes, that's what I'll do. He'll be gone, and I'll be back to my happy Selection.

"Are you all right, Gail?" Romilda asks, and I snap my head up. Her eyes dart to the Angeles bowl. "You seem… startled, at Sheng's appearance."

"I'm just… surprised." The lie forms smoothly. "I just wanted to see if the bowl was tampered with, because what are the chances someone I know would be chosen? I've known him for a long time but we've never interacted."

"Yes, I can't imagine how you feel. But don't worry, darling. I'm sure it won't be as awkward as you think."

 _If only you knew, Romilda…_

Roy, Cami and Tay pad over, Tay with his hand tucked in Cami's. Roy already has the chosen Selected's forms in hand, and he sifts through them with Cami peering over his shoulder.

"Mostly students, but not unexpected," he says. "An ice hockey player, a figure skater, models, even a K-Pop idol. You've drawn in a unique bunch, Gail." Of course, he lands on Sheng's form to mull. "Especially this guy. He's been working here for three years. His father has been working here even longer."

"Oh, really?" I say, pretending not to know.

"It will be nice to get to know them better," says Cami, though she frowns. "But I hope this won't strain our working relationship with the Mahs."

Roy stifles a giggle. "Maybe Sheng had a crush on you from afar."

My insides spiral all the way down into the earth and exodus in the middle of China. I just want to fling something. Anything. _Myself, into the sun._

Luckily, Tay looks up from the Rubix cube and peers at the forms. "They look scary…" he says.

Cami laughs and pets his head. "I'm sure they'll be lovely, Tay."

Without waiting to hear anymore, I take the forms and head out of the studio. I probably have a million things to do now, like interviews, press, deciding napkins colours, but right now my thoughts are laser-focused on Sheng.

I reach my bedroom, where I shove the forms into my desk drawer. Then I go for my phone (one year it went off in the middle of a broadcast, and Omma banned me from keeping it on my person on the Report ever since). The first text I see is from Zelda.

 _0/10. Ugly. Sorry, Belcourt._

 _7/10. If you want smart babies, go for the lawyers._

 _5/10. What the hell is that outfit choice?_

 _MODEL ALERT. HAWT. 1000000000/10._

I scroll. At the very end is, not surprisingly, her reaction to Sheng.

 _THE SELECTION WAS HACKED. NO WAY. NONONONONONO._

Then, _CAN I FLING HIM INTO THE SUN NOW?_

Then, _Girl, you're doomed._

I sigh. _Thanks for the vote of confidence, Zelda._ I skip the rest of her messages and find Sheng's.

Just one.

 _There's still a chance._

I clench my phone. Not if I have anything to say about it.

I storm out of my room and towards the stables. Wordlessly, Naomi follows me once more with an odd look in her eyes, and wisely decides not to argue when I veer off-course and dismiss her at the entrance to the Mah cottage.

Sheng and Senior Mah live in a little lodge on the grounds. Being stable hands, they have to get up at some ridiculous time in the morning to sort the horses by first light, so living on-site is necessary. It's only one story, barely four rooms large, but cosy, thatched with hay and potted neatly out front with cute little geraniums. Chinese lanterns hang outside, quietly glowing to provide some warmth and light in the setting sun.

I thought Sheng would be out here, waiting for me, but Senior Mah is the only one instead, pacing.

When he sees me, his back straightens and he removes his hat. For once, he's stunned into silence.

"Y-Your Highness, I…" the rim wrinkles under his grip, "I-I had no idea… about my son…"

"It's not your fault. I'm not mad. Just… shocked, is all."

He visible exhales. "Oh, thank goodness. I thought you would be angry. Sheng is on the phone right now, discussing the next steps of the Selection with the representative…"

"I wish to speak with him to ask why he submitted his name," I say.

Total lie. I'm telling him that he doesn't have a lick of a chance. That I am eliminating him at first opportunity. Not to bother unpacking when he gets his new room in the palace.

He broke my heart. Now it's my turn to break his.

"Of course, I understand your indignation," Senior Mah says. At least my scrunched face looks like that and not a total betrayal of fate. "I just…" he glances towards the cottage door, "I would like to speak to you myself, if that would be all right with you."

"Oh, er, how can I help you?"

"You see…" He can barely look me in the eye. "I understand for you it is an emotional journey to find a partner, but Sheng… I suspect his intentions were far less genuine."

 _Oh, were they now?_ "What makes you say that?"

"It is my mother, Your Highness. She is very unwell."

 _Senior_ Senior Mah.

I already know where this is going.

"Medical bills are very expensive. I am doing everything I can, and I know Sheng is sacrificing so much of his time and energy to make sure she is well-kept at hospital. The Selected are… very well compensated."

Every inch of me feels like cotton, easily pulling apart.

"You want me to keep him in the Selection for as long as possible."

He bows and bows and bows some more. "I apologise for asking so bluntly. I know you are offended that he has offered his name. We are truly unworthy of you, Your Highness, but I know of your kindness. We would be indebted to you and your family for life."

 _Truly unworthy._ Suddenly, I know where Sheng got his distorted outlook of life from. It lights me up like the cotton has set fire, consuming me in seconds, but I cannot let these feelings be my only bearing.

I keep him, and I kill a part of me. _My_ integrity, _my_ heart.

But if I let him go, I am potentially letting Mrs Mah die.

"He will be the model Selected," Senior Mah offers. "Not a foot out of line. It would be… good for him to interact with more people, too. Perhaps even make some friends." He bows once more, before looking at me, with such deep pleading, deep _longing,_ that it reaches into my core and shakes. "Please, Your Highness. Please consider, at least."

But my mind it already made up. I couldn't possibly gamble with Mrs Mah's life.

Even at my own expense.

"It's okay," I say in a quiet voice. "I will keep him as long as I can."

Senior Mah brightens like a sun coming out from behind clouds. He comes closer, takes my hand and bows profusely.

"Thank you, Your Highness! Thank you so much!"

"You don't have to thank me, Senior Mah." I smile. "Anything for my favourite stable master."

"Oh, you are truly as kind as they say you are." He cradles my hand tightly. "Thank you, really. We are forever in your debt."

"That's not necessary," I say, and I mean it. "I'm sure Sheng will be pleased—"

"No!" He startles. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to cut you off, but… you mustn't tell him. He will not live the experience to his fullest if he knows. He will look down upon himself."

And he's right. Because Sheng is… Sheng.

So I have to keep him, and I can't even tell him _why_. He's going to think this is his second chance.

"All right," I concede. "It's our secret."

Before Senior Mah can reply, sounds echo from the cottage. They become Chinese, filtering through the front door before it swings open.

" _Bah!"_ Sheng yells. " _Bah_ —!"

He freezes when he sees me.

Colour drains from his face. For the first time since we broke up, I see the real Sheng, raw and vulnerable and soft in his unique way. His façade is torn apart, and he stares at me like he can't believe I am here.

Like he can compete for my hand. In the open.

I clutch my wobbling voice and say, "I look forward to meeting Sheng properly in a week, Senior Mah."

Then I'm scurrying away, because I can't bear to look anymore.

And I can't bear the way my heart patters.

* * *

The week goes so fast. Like, unholy fast.

I'm whisked everywhere, shaken and stirred like a martini, pinned and jabbed with sewing needles and make-up pencils as the palace's team works to prepare the Selection. I'm stolen away for interviews, photoshoots, chat shows and TV features, and before long, the tables in the dining room are moved so that the trademark U-shape fits in the centre, with thirty-five seats scattered along the prongs.

Five days before the Selected are due to arrive, I finally get a quiet moment with Zelda and her younger sister, June. They look freakily alike, despite the ten year age gap. June has Zelda's wicked green eyes and bouncy locks of chestnut hair (not dyed, of course). They have the same sour expression, though June's is full of tones of mischief, too. When I arrive at my parlour, Zelda has already spread the forms on my sofa, now looking at her phone from the sofa's armrest, and June is rolling around on the carpet.

Zelda glances up, then grins. "Oh, excellent. I was just reading about you."

"Huh?" I say, shutting the door. What have I done now? "What were you reading?"

Her grin lengthens. "Fanfiction."

Oh _boy._

"I don't want to know."

"Oh, but you do. You know Levi's fans? Of LH²? They ship him with _everyone._ His bandmates. You. Even the Selected." She holds up her phone. "I'm reading a fic right now called – you'll never guess what." At my dead silence, her grin gets impossibly wide, and somehow even more insufferable. " _The Nut and the Butt."_

I choke.

"Butt!" yells June from the floor.

"Don't repeat that," Zelda chides without much admonishment, then she laughs. "You're having the _wildest_ escapades with Levi. I mean, you also have the personality of cardboard, but they totally nailed your pink dress sense!"

I snatch her phone and toss it onto my armchair. "Hey!" Zelda snaps, but I _so_ don't need to hear more about my steamy adventures with a K-Pop idol I've never met.

"Why are the forms on my sofa?" I ask instead.

Zelda sighs and stands, though she looks longingly at her phone. "So we can look over them. Grab the whole pencil case, June." As June runs over to my desk, Zelda cracks her knuckles. "We need to be methodical about this."

"I don't want to be _metatodical,"_ June says. She drops the pencil case over the forms and highlighters spill free. "I want to give them moustaches!"

"No moustaches." Zelda replaces the pencils and separates the highlighters by colour. June's cheeks puff but she stormily says nothing, and drops to the ground with her arms crossed.

"Why do we need to look over them?"

"Because you need to _know_ these dudes. Like, where they come from, their provinces, probably a few facts about their likes and dislikes."

"It's not a test."

"It'll make a good impression. That's what you're supposed to be doing, right? Making the monarchy look good?"

Of course, I told Zelda about my deal with Roy; I have a Selection and promote our image. Then again, that was all just to get away from Sheng, and now he's here, stealing a space upon my sofa cushions with the thirty-four other applicants. I slide him beneath the Clermont Selected, Nathaniel Durham.

I told Zelda about the deal with Senior Mah, too, which went over like this:

"I have to keep Sheng!"

"But Sheng sucks and you need to get over him! Eliminate him immediately!"

"His grandma is dying and they need the money!"

"… Oh."

Needless to say, Zelda was _not_ impressed.

"Fine, keep him," she'd said. "But just know… I don't like it. Not a little."

It didn't matter in the end. The plan was to use the Selection to make him jealous. I can still do that, and this time, now he _has_ to watch.

June stands on her tiptoes to reach over the sofa. She points. "Why are you hiding Shovel Face Sheng?"

I nearly spit. " _What?"_

"June!" Zelda clucks, then swipes her sister's hand away. "What did we agree?"

"Sorry," she says. "Only _you_ can call him Shovel Face Sheng."

"That's right. Only _I_ can call him Shovel Face Sheng."

I pout. "I did _date_ 'Shovel Face Sheng' once, you know."

"Wrong!" June yells. "Only Zelda can call him Shovel Face Sheng!"

"And you still will date Shovel Face Sheng," Zelda says with a wry smirk, "if the Selection's got anything to say about it."

I slap a palm to my face. If I have to hear _Shovel Face Sheng_ one more time…

Zelda waves a hand. "You probably know _every_ nook and cranny about him anyway so let's just leave him out. I'm nearly done with this first guy."

I peek over. It's Avian Homes from Fennley. A redhead grins blithely at the camera. At least he looks pleased to be here, more than I can say for some of these other portraits.

"I wanna' see!" June demands.

Zelda sighs and hoists her up onto her lap. June inspects poor Avian's face like she's hunting for even the slightest blemish. I have to wonder whether the Selected boys put on make-up for their photos.

"Why does he have carrot hair?"

"That's called a _redhead,_ June," Zelda corrects. "Daddy is a redhead."

"Daddy is a carrot!" she bellows. "Daddy is a carrot!"

Zelda replaces June on the ground before taking back Avian's form. "I'd give him a three out of five stars."

"… For what?"

"Hotness, of course. Granted, he's probably got a hot Kiwi accent, too. Bump it up to four." She snatches up another form – Maurice Elsmore. "Now this guy isn't _rugged_ hot, but he's like, _sleek_ hot, you know? So I'd give him a four too. His mom's that whacky psychic, did you know?"

"I did not." I take Maurice's form to ponder. Indeed, under parentage, is his mother, Vega – also known as the psychic who correctly predicted that both my mother and Cami would win their respective Selections. I don't know if it was luck or actual psychic abilities, but her on-the-money forecasts rocketed her fame. At least, more fame.

"Talking about famous, too, this guy." Yamato Watanabe, with an awkward smile on his blemish-free face. "He's apparently a huge figure skater. Won championships and stuff."

I can't help but grin. I wonder if he likes ice hockey?

Zelda smirks. "You've really pulled all the famous guys, haven't you?"

I flick my hair. "What can I say?"

She rolls her eyes as she places Yamato down and sifts through other forms. "Who else is hot…?"

I take a seat by the edge, allowing space for June to slap the papers with her palms.

"I can't judge them all by _hotness,_ Zel. It's about personality, too."

"Yeah, well, until we meet them, hot bods is all we have."

"Hot bods!" June yells.

"Don't repeat that, either." She takes a form before I can see who it is. "Tell me about Maximus Wellington."

I search my head. _Something? Anything?_

"He's… from Atlin?"

She grumbles. "And what does he do?"

"Engineering student at the University of Atlin."

"And his hotness level?"

I throw a cushion, but she deftly dodges.

After that, we let June take the first rein of impressions before Zelda helpfully inputs hers rating system ("Carpenters are usually muscular, right? Four out of five" and "Zookeepers are hot when they're not covered in animal poop, so tentative three stars"), and then she hands the forms to me. We write notes and stick the portrait to each. I start to remember finer details, like that Ansel Hewlett has intense blue eyes, and that Jeremiah Hill has younger sisters who are triplets.

As I'm reading through them, trying to place names to faces, and June colours a moustache on Sheng's portrait, Zelda suddenly asks, "What sort of things will you being doing with the boys to calm the resurgence?"

I look up. One of the things I had to sort before today was my first few events with the Selected, the very first being a short visit to the Los Angeles Cemetery, where all the victims of the rebel assault nine years ago were buried. And that's all of them: guards, maids, the Selected, rebels. Appa.

I tell this to Zelda, and her nose wrinkles.

"Wow, how attractive. A cemetery."

"I know it's not ideal, but it's for appearances."

"Do the Selected know about this?"

"Of course not, but they'll do it, because it's part of the Selection."

Zelda snorts. "You know, I'm pretty sure their idea of what they'd be doing during the Selection was dating _you_ , not visiting graveyards. I get it." Zelda speaks before I can. "I know you have to do this for your brother, and your country, but don't forget this is still _your_ Selection."

Is it?

They can call it _my_ Selection, but with the number of cooks who have stuck their spoons in the soup, it might not be mine to own anymore. Heck, I only wanted a Selection out of spite, and I'm not even afforded _that_ anymore.

I have to reclaim this and make it mine, even with ingredients that don't belong to me. Somehow.

"Well then, how about afterwards," I say, pushing the thoughts away, "I meet each of them one-on-one. It's a classic Selection feature."

"It's… not very unique or cinematic," Zelda admits. "We need to make this more exciting, more thrilling."

"Need to, or _want_ to?"

"Oh, definitely _want_ to," she says, without a hint of shame. "I'll be with you the whole way, and I'm not sitting around for three hours listening to thirty-five boys slobber over how gorgeous your chocolate-brown-golden-gemstone eyes are."

"Ew, slobber!" June says, as she draws glasses on Benedict Santiago of Calgary. "That's gross!"

"See? If June says it's gross, it totally is." Zelda taps her chin in thought. "How about I write you some questions to ask them? Fun question, not boring ones."

"What _kind_ of questions?"

"Very casual. _If you could have one pizza topping for the rest of your life, what would it be? What's your biggest dream? Got any weird kinks?"_

"That doesn't sound too— hey!"

"What's a _kink?"_ says June.

"Nothing," Zelda says, just as a knock raps at the door.

I sigh. This is going nowhere. Without asking for an identity, I open the door, and a huge shadow instantly engulfs me.

Captain Durante is a giant of a man. Broad-shouldered and red uniform bursting at the seams, he looks like he could pummel you with only his pinkie finger (and he probably could, but I am _so_ not going to test that theory). Yet, it's only a pair of kind, green eyes on a warm brown face that regard me, smiling.

"Your Highness, I came to brief you about security measures, but I see you're busy. Shall I come back later?"

Before I get the chance to reply, June scrambles off Zelda's lap towards him. "Papa!" she yells. "Papa! Papa!"

He scoops her up in one movement and grins. "All right, little one." He nuzzles into her cheeks and she giggles. "Having fun?"

"Yes, Papa! Daddy is a carrot!" June chirrups. "And Zelda has kinks!"

Zelda goes so white she could do a spit take without any water.

"… i-in your hair!" she sputters, but then goes even more white when she realises Durante practically has no hair. "In this dude's hair, I mean!" She holds up Parker Zaleski's portrait. Blond curls spring down to his jaw. Lucky.

"Mmm. I hope that's what she meant, Zelda." She gets a stern narrow of his eyes, but nothing more. He says to me, "Would you prefer if I came back later?"

"No, no. We can do it now." I need a break and I haven't even started yet.

I clear space and sink into the pink sofa, and Zelda joins me, but typical to Durante, he only comes in to stay standing, bouncing June in his arms. Which is a contrast, because his face is deadly serious as he delivers the intended security measures to me.

"Each Selected with be guarded, twenty-four seven. No exceptions. You yourself will have a contingent led by Naomi Astrauskas."

So no escaping my shadows. Great.

My face must be as open as a hungry mouth, as he sighs. "It's for your protection. You know that, right?"

"I know," I say, but it comes out huffy.

"Likewise, Zelda," he faces her, "you will be escorted around as well."

"What?" she says. "But… I'm not royal."

"No, but besides the fact that you're Her Highness' closest confidant, you are also my daughter, and I am not willing to risk anything."

"How will it work at the cemetery, and other group events?" I ask, before Zelda can protest. "Will everyone have their guards?"

"We will make sure all exits are covered and the group is secured."

"And dates?"

That causes him to frown. He nods his heads towards the armchair and, after I nod back, sinks down like an exhausted man drops to sleep. June fiddles with the tassels of his epaulets.

"We… haven't quite nailed that one yet. His Majesty is insistent on a permanent guard keeping pace a few feet away."

 _A few feet?_ I know I agreed to let Roy make all of the decisions, but sheesh, am I not even going to have a lick of privacy?

Zelda has the same thought, scoffing. "Oh, so the guards are going to watch Gail pee, too? Come on, Jo. You know that's ridiculous."

"Yes, that's why I told him it was too intrusive." He regards June warmly even though he says, "This is just on palace grounds, as well. We are instating full precautions when you are outside our walls."

And I'll be outside the walls a lot, it seems.

I slouch on the sofa. It was hard enough keeping my tryst with Sheng a secret. Lucky for me, Cami is an expert free climber and spent a few years teaching me the basics, and it's come in handy getting down the palace wall to sneak to Sheng's place (go hard or go home, right?). But with so many guards, so many people watching me with hawk eyes, it'll be downright impossible to sleep in peace, let alone date any of my Selected.

"I'm wearing him down, Your Highness," Durante reassures, with a crooked smile. "But he is… unyielding. For good reason," he quickly adds.

No way, after the whole argument I had before the Selection, does Roy _not_ know that he's suffocating me, but I agreed what I agreed, and I trust Captain Durante to get me the leeway I need to breathe.

"Okay, good, because I really don't want to be hovered over while I do stuff with my dates."

Zelda stifles a laugh, because of course, she sees the dirty in everything. Durante, luckily, ignores her to take my words at face value. "Yes, I understand how nightmarish that would be."

"Anything else?"

He untangles June's fingers and sets her down, and then stands. "That's all for now. I'll brief you each time it's necessary." To Zelda, he says, "Make sure you and June get to your tutors at two, and be back home for six, all right?"

"Sure, sure." Zelda waves her hand.

Durante rolls his lips, but says nothing else, and bows his head to me.

"Aw, don't go, Papa!" June cradles his leg as he moves for the door. "The Selected boys will slobber over Gail!"

"Then the princess will need a lot of tissues, won't she?"

June giggles so much she falls onto the ground.

He reaches down and ruffles her hair. "I have to go back to work, sweetheart. Play with Zelda." He fixes Zelda a pointed look before planting one last kiss on June's cheek and leaving, shutting the door gently behind him.

I run a hand through my hair. It looks like this Selection will be so much more work than I thought it would be.

Zelda lets out a long sigh.

"June, let's make a new rule: never say the word _kink_ in front of Daddy or Papa ever again, okay?"

"Kink!" she yells, before going back to drawing moustaches on Sheng's face.

* * *

The last few days happen so quickly I can barely keep up.

Final decisions are made, the Selected wing is prepared for use, and I am spun into so many new outfits I might have to wear two a day to get through them all. I choose the napkin colours (pink), the tablecloth colour (pink), even the colour of the paper in which I send notes to the Selected (spoiler! It's pink). At the end of the preparation I feel like a Polaroid camera out of film: a block of uselessness that desperately needs a refill.

And it's only just begun.

The Selected are flown in from their provinces by morning's end. Already, it's September, and summer is slowly making way for autumn.

I sweep out the hem of my short, white dress with a glittery black bow. It'll probably dazzle a few people, but if they're going to date me, they need to get used to my dress sense. I'm the polar opposite of Zelda, who marches besides me in an all-black skater dress and black kitten heels to my teal wedges.

Rudy is just behind us, and Roy takes up the rear with Cami at his side, arms intertwined. No cane for him today, and with his inserts his odd gait is nearly unnoticeable, but he likes having Cami on his arm 'just in case' (read: he looks cooler with her there). Around us are the guard contingent – totally unnecessary, but according to Zelda, it makes us look scary, and she revels in that sort of attention.

When we round the corner for the Men's Parlour doors, huge mammoth birch wood that gleams with engraved golden whorls, I'm startled to see a man standing outside. Not one of the attendants.

I narrow my eyes to get a better view, and recognition flickers like a bulb. It's one of my Selected: Kingsley Obasanjo. Tall, dark-skinned, he turns and smiles with such smoothness I'm already nearly tripping over myself. His teeth are so white he makes my dress look like a grandma's beaten rug. _Ex-swimmer, model,_ I remember from my notes, and no wonder. Every inch of him is tailored, from his clothes, to his short black hair, to his jaw – so sharp and cutting, like he was carved from gold by a Greek god.

"Your Highness, Your Majesties, Sir." He bows deeply. "Good morning to you all."

Roy fixes him a stern look. "I believe we asked the Selected to wait inside the Men's Parlour."

But if Kingsley is fazed by Roy's narrowed eyes, he doesn't show it. "I wanted to be the first to greet you all, but especially Her Highness, in person."

Zelda whistles under her breath, and the rest of the adults look to me for the next step. I nod and they part, allowing Kingsley to come forward, take my hand, and plant a gentle kiss on the top. My insides melt instantly.

"What a pleasure it is to meet you," he says in a soft voice, one that pulls me right under. "It's truly an honour. You are as beautiful in person as you are on the television."

My cheeks flush. "Oh, a-ah, you're so kind, Kingsley."

"You know my name?"

"Of course." I add, "I know all of the Selected's names."

His grin falters, just slightly, but it comes back with a vengeance, and he rises with effortless grace. "Thank you. I hope this is a start of a happy relationship between us." He offers an arm, tucked into an expensive cut suit that just radiates high self-esteem. "Shall I escort you inside?"

I take his arm. This is it.

Kingsley makes to move, but I, rooted to the spot, jerk him back.

 _Totally fine,_ I tell myself. _I have already met one. Now it's just thirty-four other hot boys._

 _Including Sheng._

Sweat dapples my cheeks.

"Are you all right, Your Highness?" Kingsley asks me.

"I'm fine," I say.

Together, we head through the doors.

* * *

 **A/N:** so it begins... I hope you enjoyed this chapter! :D

Your first look at the Selected! What did you think of Captain Durante? And Kingsley? Prep yourselves for the next few chapters of introductions... I promise I have tried to make it more interesting than the tsats intros, lol. As a note before more introductions occur, the amount of words I spend on your character is not indicative of how much I like them or how likely they are to advance in the competition. Some characters come easier, some don't, and right now, I'm still trying to figure them all out and portray interactions organically.

On another note, I'm very thankful for the Pinterest invites but please don't feel obligated to add me to character boards (unless they are private)! So many tratr boards on my profile messes with my head when I'm trying to save pins to the story's board, lol. I will happily follow them all for inspiration, however, so feel free to PM me your usernames (if you have a particular outfit you think your character would wear? Aesthetic? Snippet? Pin it. I'll see it).

Not sure if I will update next Sunday, because I'm still not done with Chapter 7, and I desperately need an outline (my butt a month ago: lol i don't need an outline hashtagyolo), but I'll kick my own butt into getting one done so I can continue ASAP.

Otherwise, thank you for your lovely reviews so far and thanks for reading!

~ GWA

NTT: "Guess I'll die."


	5. Good Press

The Men's Parlour is a wide open space, not much different from the Women's Room with classic cream furniture, high windows, a fireplace and gossamer curtains, but there's distinctly a beiger tone in the cushions and the rugs. The Selected who were seated rocket to stand, and all around me are black suits, grey suits, navy suits, pinstripes, even an ugly green one. Each person is a myriad of emotions, like I'm staring at a reel of film, a new face on each frame.

The attendant clears his throat. "Announcing the arrival of Her Royal Highness, Princess Gail, Sir Kingsley Obasanjo, His Royal Majesty, King Roy, Her Majesty, Queen Camilla," he falters, "Sir Rudy Bezuidenhout-Leeuwenhoek and Lady Zelda Bezuidenhout-Leeuwenhoek."

The poor guy totally said it wrong, but Zelda and Rudy are so used to it they don't even roll their eyes. Zelda comes to my side, glaring at each of the Selected boys with her usual critical gaze – probably directly hunting for Sheng, too, given how her body strings taut like a bow.

"Sir Kingsley, if you would stand with your fellow Selected," says Roy.

Kingsley looks slightly disappointed, but nonetheless flashes me another smile that sends my heart racing, and joins back in the crowd. He's so distinctively relaxed in the sea of tension.

My eyes eventually find Sheng – no longer so big in the festival of tallness. He looks so different in pinstripes and loafers, when I'm so used to seeing him in a thin T-shirt and a pair of combats, but oh _boy_ does it sculpt so well to his godlike figure. I think he'll meet my eye, but his attention is solely fixed on Kingsley, jaw feathering.

 _Jealous, Sheng?_ It brings a smile to my face. Keep him I might have to do, but I can still have some fun with it.

Roy unlatches Cami and comes to the front.

"Gentlemen, welcome to Angeles, and to the palace of Illéa. I'm sure introductions aren't necessary, but in case you were in cryogenic stasis when you were Selected, I am King Roy. The queen and my wife, Camilla." He gestures to her, then to me. "And I'm sure my sister, Gail, needs no introduction either."

There is a hum of agreement.

"Let me first start by saying that innocent as she might look, Gail is a trained third-dan black belt in jujitsu, and will not hesitate to demolish you should you decide to harm her in any way, shape, or form."

"R-Roy!" I sputter, which earns a few chuckles.

He shrugs. "Just as a warning that it is not wise to cross Gail Su-Jin Schreave. Ever." He then gestures to Rudy. "This is Rudy Bezuidenhout-Leeuwenhoek, and he will be your Selection Nanny—" he splutters, "ahem, your Selection _Co-Ordinator,_ during your time here."

"A very genuine mistake," Rudy mutters.

"As such, Rudy is the man you go to with any troubles regarding anything, be it just questions or personal troubles. He is, however, also my valet, so apologies if he must attend to me first."

"Oh, no, no," Rudy says, "please ask for me whenever you like so I am not required to attend to His Majesty. It would be greatly amusing to see him struggle to tie his shoelaces."

More chuckles. Even Sheng cracks a smile.

"I-I can tie my shoelaces." Roy doesn't sound very confident though, and moves on swiftly to Zelda. "This is Zelda Bezuidenhout-Leeuwenhoek, Gail's best friend."

"Yep!" Zelda crows it like an achievement. "And if you hurt her, you will meet my untrained, zero-dan white-belt fist! But otherwise, hello. I am nice."

I facepalm. Besides me, Rudy does too.

"Queen Ji-Yu is also expected to return from her tour of Seoul today," Roy adds. "She will be arriving here later this afternoon and will be joining us to socialise. Otherwise," he pauses, "I will pass the introduction onto the lady of the hour."

I step forwards and smile.

"Hello, and welcome to the palace. I hope your flights weren't too long. Normally, this is the moment where I'd go around the room and introduce myself to you all. But today, we're making a short trip somewhere first."

Confusion swaps between them.

"It is important to recognise the weight of the occasion. The last Selection to occur was nine years ago, for my brother, Roy. We all know how badly tragedy struck my family and this nation, so I feel it's important to pay our respects to the dead in a short excursion to the Los Angeles Cemetery."

It hits me with surprise to see some reluctant faces. Their first task is a simple trip to the cemetery, and some of them don't even want to do that. It feels like a personal offence, but I smile, let it slide off a guise of innocence. _Sweet, innocent Princess Gail._

Nice to know eliminating some of them won't be too hard.

"We'll be heading shortly. There will be camera crews to capture the occasion. You will travel separately from my friends and family, but I will be joining you in the cars, so I hope you have small-talk ready!"

A restless current curves through the Selected. Sheng makes no face of disapproval. Kingsley is also the picture of ease, flashing me a confident nod that just screams _join my car, Princess._ I notice Parker fiddling restlessly with his sleeves, and Grayson working his jaw.

Outside, as the limos open the doors, Zelda takes me by the shoulder. "You sure you don't want me to join you? You'll be on your own."

"I'll be fine," I say as my heart stammers. "I have to get to know these guys, and I can't always do that with you around anyway."

Zelda only shrugs as she joins Roy, Cami, Tay and Rudy in one car. The Selected are split into small groups of four or five. Sheng, I see, has been strung with Avian Homes, Valerian Griffin, and two other guys whose name escapes me. I make a mental note to avoid that car entirely.

"Your Highness?"

A voice startles me, and I turn. _Dominik Giles is a prodigal young author of several popular works,_ Zelda's voice natters in my head. He's Chinese, definitely, but that's where the similarities with Sheng end, because it's a lanky figure that is easily slid into a clean grey suit and suspenders. Black hair sweeps to the side, gelled, and wide eyes regard me with a palpable adoration.

"I'm Dominik Giles, from Dominica. Would you like to join our car today?"

 _Who else?_ His party is turned away. Dominik made an _effort_ to ask me.

Which is very sweet. "I'd be honoured. Thank you for asking."

He makes a face like a puppy about to get a treat, and offers his arm, which I slip through. We trod to the limo and pile inside, Dominik next to me.

"It's a huge honour to finally meet you," Dominik confesses with a huge, bashful grin. "I love everything that you do, Your Highness."

It brings a sure blush to my cheeks, so much that I have to fan myself. "Aw, thank you. It's nice to meet you in person, Dominik."

Opposite us is microbiology student Silas Braxton, from Likely, apparently struggling with the seatbelt as he tries to tug it over himself. Like to total opposite of Dominik, his appearance is fashionably unkempt, with loose curls that crawl over a light tan face, and an untucked black shirt that slouches over his sharp frame.

He sighs, releases the seatbelt, and says with a shrug, "Guess I'll die."

"Please don't," I say with an exasperated laugh.

"Oh, I'll try not to, Your Highness. That would make terrible press." It's only when a smile emerges across his thin lips that I realise he's messing with me.

"You have to let it wind back," says Dominik, " _then_ tug it forwards."

Silas does, and the seatbelt clicks into place. He sinks lower into the chair.

"Not today, Satan."

"It's Dominik, actually." He grins. "Nice to meet you, too."

Silas shakes his hand, and then offers it to me.

"Silas Braxton."

"I know," I say, with my tongue half stuck out. "I've read your form."

His hands are surprisingly muscled – not in a Sheng way, but in a _stronger than I look_ kind of way – and they dwarf my petite hands. He doesn't linger on the touch for very long despite his inviting half-smile.

The third and fourth guys next to him are one Jon Sun and Jacob Lance McKenzie, but neither seem particularly interested to be going to the cemetery right now, judging by the huffy way Jon crosses his arms over his chest, or the intensity in which Jacob Lance stares out the window and completely ignores all my attempts at eye contact.

"You've read our forms?" Silas fills the silence as the limo begins to move down the driveway. "So I take it you know all of our dirty secrets?"

Dominik actually pales at the words. "Do you have the psychometric test results, too?"

"I don't, though I'm sure I could ask for them," I say. "As for dirty secrets, well, the dirtiest information I have is…" My shoulders hunch, and I whisper, "whether you're a virgin or not."

Silas lets out a breathy chuckle, which does all sorts of things to my poor heart. Oh _boy_ is that an attractive noise.

"That's the dirtiest secret you have on us?"

I shrug. "My brother thought it pertinent to include. Basically, anything you submitted on your form, I know. For example," I turn to Dominik, "I know you're a bestselling author."

Red rushes right up his pale cheeks, and he has to clear his throat before he says, "Oh, it's nothing. Not really."

"Really now?" Silas cants his head. "What sort of things do you write?"

"Modern retelling fiction," he admits in a small voice. "I love the whole… fairy tale aspect. My first novel was a Snow White retelling, where Snow lived with her abusive aunt in upstate New York."

I know all about these, too. Zelda gallantly volunteered to read one before she gave up halfway on _White as Snow,_ claiming it was too 'mushy' for her tastes, but probably perfect for me. I decided not to read them at all; I didn't want it to affect my outlook of him before the Selection even began.

"That's amazing," I say, and I mean it. "You're a bestseller and you're so young."

"Ah, well." He rubs the back of his neck. "I got lucky."

"Don't be so modest. That's a wonderful achievement."

"T-Thanks." He can't even look at me anymore he's going so red. It's really sweet.

Silas scoffs. "Aaaaand now I feel wholly inadequate—"

He's cut off by a deafening roar. The palace gates have opened to let us out, and crowds upon crowds have lined the streets to catch a glimpse of our vehicles. It must be their lucky day, because I didn't announce publically that we were going to the cemetery first, hoping it to be a private occasion, but with the number of people outside it's like they were expecting it. Suddenly, I'm grateful for tinted glass.

There's a huge number of young women, too. Young women my age. Some hold signs. Most of them are of Levi, or written in Korean about his band, so I can only guess his army of fans have come to support him on the first day.

As we drive further away, I pull my attention back to Silas. He's staring out the window now, with an odd sort of intensity. Though his eyes have a soft quality to them, he looks beyond the windows like he's trying to remember each and every thing we pass.

"You're a student, aren't you?"

He comes back to the present and rolls his shoulders. "Yep. Microbiology. Infectious diseases. All the good stuff. I'm an intern at the Centre of Disease Control— well, I _was_ , I guess."

I giggle. "You like germs, then?"

"Love them," he says, with a smirk, "as long as I'm in gloves, a lab coat, and an entirely different room."

"What made you choose the field?"

He shrugs. "Just seemed interesting. So many people are uneducated as to disease prevention. I guess I like knowing I had a hand in helping to prevent fatalities that could've been easily avoided."

"That's noble of you." I smile. "You want to become a doctor?"

"Heh. _Dr Silas Braxton_. Nice ring to it." He rests his hands behind his head, nudging grumpy Jon Sun. "But no. For now, I'll just complete my degree and see what I want afterwards. I feel this whole… process might change my initial ideas for the future."

"Too right," Dominik says. "I was doing decently before, but since my name was called on the Report, my book sales have rocketed."

"What about you, Princess?" Silas deftly changes the conversation to me. "Why a Selection?"

"Why not?" I say instead.

"I would've thought maybe you didn't want one, after your brother's…"

I consider my answer carefully. "I don't think potential clap back from dissenters should prevent me from carving my own piece of the future. No matter who I choose in the end, it will be nice to have met new people, and experience new things."

Silas laughs. "That sounded rehearsed."

"… Okay, maybe a little."

The three of us chuckle, and the rest of the ride we spend just talking about other things, not related to the Selection. It's refreshing, since that's all my life has been for the last few weeks. I tell Dominik and Silas that, no, my dress sense isn't a massive ploy to make people think I'm cute – I do really like the colour pink – and that my favourite food is blueberries, and in turn Dominik tells me he likes bugs, and Silas shares that his favourite food is white cheddar popcorn (which I said was really weird, and Silas accepted with not more than a small laugh).

Our conversation peters once we reach the cemetery. A cold chill clings to my bare shoulders as I exit the car, and I'm glad I brought my black shawl to cover myself. Dominik, ever the gentlemen, offers his arm again, which I take, and Silas walks on my other side.

For the first time, I hear Jon Sun's voice, muttering under his breath. "Imagine taking us _here_ first."

"I know," Jacob Lance says. "Not exactly _romantic,_ is it?"

It takes all my willpower not to turn around. How could they say such things? But, of course, I remember on Jon's form that his parents were homeless for several years, just scraping by, and Jacob Lance's family were farmers caught in the riots down south years ago.

I guess they're still hurt. Or maybe they're still bitter.

Silas flashes them dirty looks anyway, which is a slight comfort, and both he and Dominik stay by my side as we enter the cemetery proper. The grounds are well-kept, the lawns mowed, gravestones polished, but it's such a large space that it dizzies me for a moment. Bigger than I ever expected to be in the centre of a large, industrial city.

With Roy and Cami at the head of our huge party, we follow their lead, going silent as they do. I slip my arm free of Dominik.

"Thank you," I say to him, then to Silas. "Both of you. It was lovely to talk."

"Anytime," says Silas, with that light smile.

"Anytime," Dominik agrees with a much more modest one.

I send them both one last thankful smile and then catch up to my family. Guards flank us, and the photographers, a whole handful of them from multiple different media companies, are instructed to keep a respectful distance away. They slip silently like lizards around to capture the mass movement of our party.

Because nothing makes good press like honouring the dead. As horrible as it is, it's true.

It doesn't take long to reach the burial site of the victims.

There must be hundreds of graves, identical except for the few whose families could afford fancier stones. Names are etched onto each piece, along with captions like _lovingly missed_ or _beloved by family._ It hits me hard how these people died, perhaps, to save me. They died so I could escape all those years ago.

But to me, most of these people are just names.

I glance at Roy and Cami. Neither say anything, but their hands are intertwined, squeezing tightly. They seem to inhale each name, and it's a wordless request that the rest of us do the same. Rudy, likewise, halts at the odd grave, of people who must've been former colleagues, and absently rubs his left thigh.

"Hello, Your Highness," says a soft voice.

And yet, the guy who owns the voice looks anything but soft. He's a hulking beast of a man, so impossibly tall, and so impossibly muscular, that I'm startled at the contrast of his kind, brown eyes as he regards me.

 _Kajika Bahe,_ says Zelda's voice. _Carpenter from Yukon._

Native American, he has deep brown skin, and long hair tied a bun. _Hot,_ is my second thought, and given our location, I feel terribly guilty.

"Yes. Hello," I mumble. "Kajika Bahe, right?"

"Yes, ma'am. I just wondered if you would like some company." He offers an arm. "It's… better to have someone at your side, at places like this."

And I agree. Captain Durante's not here with Rudy, but at least he has Zelda, who never strays too far from her adoptive father in her own lull of sombreness.

"Yes," I say. "I'd like that."

We link arms. He's so tall it nearly doesn't work, but I can tell he's deliberately hanging his arm lower to accommodate. We trundle along the graves in silence to appreciate and thank the victims, and it's nice, not having to say much. Say anything at all, even, to fill the air.

Only when we come upon one grave does my chest constrict.

 _Lanna Delgado,_ it reads. _Beloved mother, sister, and friend. Highest honours granted posthumously, for services to the royal family of Illéa._

"You knew her?" Kajika asks.

"She was my childminder."

So many years ago, when my parents were too busy to stay with me, and Roy was doing his own thing, Lanna was the only person I had left. She fed me, played with me, stayed with me until I fell asleep. She raised part of me, and I can never thank her enough. I never did get to thank her, before her death.

A solid lump forms in my throat, but I don't force it away. Instead, I let the tears roll down my cheeks. An attendant hands me a small wreath and, kneeling free from Kajika's hold, I place it down and touch the gravestone.

"Love you, Lanna," I mumble. "I miss you every day. I hope wherever you are, no one is throwing glitter on you like I used to do."

Kajika offers me a tissue, which I gratefully take to dab my eyes. A few steps away, Selected are looking at me curiously, strangely. It brings heat to my cheeks, and I quickly gather my composure.

"Sorry," I say to Kajika. "I know I'm a mess."

"You are mourning," he says. "That's nothing to be sorry for."

He's right. I slide the tissue into my pockets and, arms linked once more, continue on.

The graves seem to be endless. _So much death._ Only a single building in the middle of the cemetery is our only respite from the repetitive landscape, but even then, my heart shrivels at the sight.

The mausoleum.

It's not very large, so only a pocket of people can go in at one time. Roy and I, however, stay despite each changeover.

It is Appa's burial place, after all.

Inside it is barely lit with torches. Shadows recede into tiny corners that would've been decorated with cobwebs if it weren't for the frequent upkeep. There's only a single tombstone in the centre; plain, simple, but no less meaningful.

Engraved on the top slab are the words, _Here lies Merrick Gregory Clarkson Triton Galloway Schreave, beloved father, brother, friend, and regent of Illéa._

 _Husband to Ji-Yu Kim Schreave, he is succeeded by Jun Fitzroy, Gail Su-Jin, and Taeyang Merrick Schreave._

" _The Merry King. Appa. Sun to the moon."_

The lump returns. My grip on Kajika's arm tightens.

An attendant hands Roy a wreath and he places it on the tombstone's head. Just like me, he can't fight the tears that roll down his cheeks. In total silence we stand. I wonder what Appa would say, if he were here, about my Selection. About the competition, about the boys chosen to compete. About how his little peanut is growing up.

How things would be so different today.

A little weep escapes me. Kajika holds my hand, and it's a comforting presence.

As the boys rotate in and out to pay respects, it's nice to see that even the reluctant ones bare the weight of the moment. Some put their hands on the tombstone, some stand a distance away, some give me reassuring arm squeezes, and some nod at me. With each, I am grateful that they've taken the time to understand this little part of me, if nothing else.

Kajika stays by my side the whole time. Roy clears his throat.

"Could you leave us alone for a moment?" he croaks.

Kajika nods and lets me go. Soon, it's just me, Roy and Cami.

"Would you like me to go too?" she asks, still holding tightly to Roy's hand.

"No," he says. "No. Stay. Please."

No one says anything. It's empty, cold, but… nice.

This is the right way to honour our father.

Roy dabs his eyes with a handkerchief.

"All right. Let's go back."

Roy and Cami go, but I take one more moment to look at his grave.

What would Appa say if he knew I started this whole Selection process out of spite?

I bite my tongue, press my hand one last time to the stone.

"I… I hope you're proud of me… no matter what."

With that, I turn and leave.

* * *

The clouds seem to have parted when I return outside, dappling the ground with little rays of sun. Roy scrutinises our party once more, and then nods to the guard.

"Final security checks," he calls. "Guards will be going around to evaluate everything before we can leave. Please wait here and talk amongst yourselves."

He and Cami head off in one direction, probably to get some decent photos of the two by themselves. Rudy, as always, follows a short distance away, but Zelda squeezes through the Selected to find me.

But not before a smarmy voice finds me first.

"Thank god we're finally leaving."

Jon Sun, _again,_ perhaps just behind me. As Kajika comes back to my side, I hear Jon mutter angrily to whoever is nearest.

"This is ridiculous," he says. "Look at all these photographers. What are we? Puppets? This is all just for show."

"The dead rest here." A voice devoid of any sympathy cuts across him. "You should have some respect."

Roy, Cami, and Rudy are too far away to hear, and there are too many tall bodies crowded around to identify the voice exactly, but I can see a mop of platinum blond hair bouncing around the rest.

"Don't tell me you're buying this, Soren," Jon says. "The only reason we're here isn't to _pay respects._ It's too look good for the cameras."

And thank god there _are_ no cameras recording within earshot, because they would've eaten the possibility up like a raccoon gobbles on trash. I'm still reeling in my feelings from Appa's tombstone, so much so that Jon's comments rile some deep part of me.

Someone else chimes in. "I think you should be quiet, man. Keep your opinions to yourself." I recognise the accent – Calgarian – which means that must be Benedict Santiago.

"Pssh. I came here to woo the princess, not partake in some poncy monarchy propaganda."

 _That_ does it.

I hate that I have to do it for my country first, me second. I hate that he thinks that's all this is for.

I hate that he's right.

I wrench free from Kajika – he yelps at the suddenness of it – and elbow my way through. It's a weird stand-off, where Jon has shoved his hands in his trouser pockets, and both Benedict and the blond guy who must be Soren Reinhart keep short pace away.

Zelda gets here just as I do, and judging by her face, she heard the comments, loud and clear. She's too late to attempt to make the first move though as I stomp towards him.

"H-How dare you!" I snap. "How dare you think you're so superior to the rest of us!"

He seems taken aback, but quickly melts into disdain. "So you're part of this scheme, too?"

" _I am part,"_ I say under my breath, "of a tragedy that struck my family and friends, and I thought that maybe coming here today would bring some of it into perspective! But you're just rude, arrogant, and disrespectful. You can't even be quiet long enough to get through one simple walkthrough of a cemetery!"

"I don't think I'm above it," he says back. "But I _am_ above being used as a prop for your family."

"Why did you even enter my Selection then?"

"Because I thought _you_ were above it, too!"

"That's enough." Benedict comes to stand by my side. His thick black hair seems to stand on end, and the features on his light brown face tense as they fixate on Jon. "You should back off."

"You look and sound ridiculous," Soren adds. A contrast to Benedict, he is thin like stretched taffy, hair so blond it's white, and a face cool of any of the burning fury that surrounds us. "It's embarrassing for the rest of us."

I step forwards. "And the moment when we return to the palace, go back to your room, pack your bags, and _leave."_

He doesn't even seem bothered by the sudden elimination, which only infuriates me more, and moves around to head back up the cemetery pathway. The Selected around us part to let him through; Sheng is there, and nearly doesn't side-step, and though his gaze flickers to mine brimming with the desperate urge to speak to me, his fists are clenched.

A hand reaches my shoulder. Zelda. "You all right?"

I take a deep breath. My insides churn, my face is a deep red. "I'm fine." I would very much like to pummel his gross face though.

"You took him down," she says, though I don't quite believe her.

A jerk he might've been, he's right. Right, right, right. Righter than the opposite of left, and whether the boys knew it or not before, they might have a clue that the Selection isn't merely just for show now.

At that moment, Roy and Cami return from their wander. Security mumbles to him before he calls, "All right, let's head out!"

Jon is right behind him, determined to avoid any more encounters, and the rest of us are slow to follow. I take a few moments to compose myself. Benedict watches me from a distance, seemingly unsure what to say, whereas Soren has already started to move along with everyone else.

Sheng looks like he wants to stay, to talk, but I deliberately turn my back on him to face Benedict.

"Thank you," I say.

Benedict smiles – a half-upturned thing, that if my heart weren't already racing from the big mean guy, would set me alight.

"That's all right. He was a jerk. I probably should've called him out sooner to be honest." He nods his head towards the stragglers, and we catch up. "Ben, by the way. Benedict is a name only my mother uses when she's angry at me."

"Ben," I test. I like its ease. "Then you can call me Gail, no title."

He grins. "All right, Gail No-Title."

"Hah, hah."

As Zelda interrogates Ben for more information on Jon's misdeeds, I catch Soren by the arm. He half-turns at the touch, still with that impossibly blank face. Matched with his eerie white hair, he's like a ghost. Only his skin provides any warmth to him, a light tan.

"I want to say thank you," I say. "You ran off so fast I nearly didn't get the chance."

He grunts. "We travelled together, since I'm from Bankston and he's from St George, and he's been a douchebag since the airport. Had it coming."

Probably. Especially since he was such a no-fun wet wipe in the limo.

"Regardless, thank you."

He grunts again, and that's the end of that apparently.

At the parking lot, Sheng stands motionless and gestures for his fellow Selected to go ahead him. He's waiting for me. It simultaneously wallops me with dread as it thrills some silly part of me.

"May I ride with you, Your Highness?"

Voice as smooth as chocolate, it weakens my very knees. I have to cough to expel such heinous thoughts. Unfortunately, since I was one of the stragglers, there's only the one limo left with any space.

So I manage a sweet smile. His voice can ooze sensuality for me, but if there's one weakness of his that _I_ can exploit, it's my smile, and it brings a new flush to his cheeks.

"Of course."

Sheng allows me to go in first, and I tumble into the vehicle. Then Ben, Soren and Zelda – since Roy, Cami and Rudy didn't bother to wait for her – go in next, with Sheng last.

It shouldn't make me laugh, watching my petite best friend wedged in next to colossal Sheng, but I can't help but giggle inwardly as she glares sideways at him. It practically sears with _I will kill you slowly, Shovel Face._

"Your Highness." If he notices Zelda glowering at him, he doesn't show it. "Are you sure you're all right?"

To be honest, I'm still quite shaken. But no way am I allowing Sheng the satisfaction of knowing the Selection isn't going as planned. That not all the boys are throwing themselves at my feet. This is just a one-off, as insignificant as a fly on a windscreen window.

"I'm fine," I say.

Like an absolute goddess of distraction, Zelda crows, "Sorry, what was your name? I completely and totally forgot to remember it."

Ben and Soren exchange a glance, Ben with a raised eyebrow, Soren with— well, Soren doesn't do anything, but his eyes definitely flickered with acknowledgement, so I'm counting it. It's impossibly hard to miss Zelda's vivid disdain.

Sheng clears his throat. "Sheng Mah, ma'am."

"Well, _Sheng Mah,_ you're taking up half my seat."

He doesn't rise to her snips. "… My apologies." He attempts to suck in his gut, which is somehow even funnier than the scrunched expression on Zelda's face.

I know she's still annoyed for me at the break-up, but I wish she wouldn't be so… obvious about it. Especially in front of foreign company.

"I'll glue myself to the side, if that helps?" Ben, on Zelda's other side, flattens himself against the limo wall.

"You're fine," she says with a sigh, like she's resigned to accept that she must endure sitting next to someone on her To Maim list. "You're way more slight than this dude. No offence."

Ben relaxes with a laugh. "None taken. You're the palace's stable hand, right, Sheng?" He leans forwards to ask over her. "Makes sense, since you gotta' be heckin' chonk to do that."

"… Heckin' _what?"_ Zelda says.

" _Chonk,"_ says Ben, with a wry smile. "You know. _Hench."_

"I am," Sheng says. "Er, the stable hand, not… _chonk…"_

If _chonk_ means _hench,_ then boy is Sheng very, _very_ chonk. And I would know. I've seen him shirtless.

"What, er…" He starts again, with that same, almost lost expression. "What do you do…?"

"Ben," he supplies. "I'm a historian. Twenty-first century is my speciality, to be precise."

Zelda snorts. "You mean the century where humanity drove itself into the ground, caused the extinction of several species of animal, and nearly collapsed the earth itself?"

"… I mean, you're not wrong…" His eyes seem to brighten to big, brown orbs. It's actually endearing. "You like history, Lady Zelda?"

"It's fine, except that if I ever have to look at another stupid yellow creature," she scowls, "I will literally throw myself out of this vehicle."

"Yeet," Ben says, and then goes a little red. "Er, I mean, that would be… terrible?"

Soren snorts. "Just as terrible at that attempt at a back-pedal."

Wow! He lives!

Ben just chuckles sheepishly, embarrassingly, so I deftly take the reins of conversation. Soren doesn't seem like the sharing type, for all ten minutes I've known him, but it doesn't mean I shouldn't try.

"If I remember correctly, you're a mechanic, right?"

He juggles his head. "I'm a mechanic part-time. I study at the moment."

"What do you study?"

"Neurology." He catches Sheng's blank face. "Disorders of the nervous system."

Took me a hot second there, too.

He doesn't elaborate, and the car goes quiet again. I'm starting to think Soren isn't much talkative, even about himself. Even his voice is monotonous, a song trapped on one note.

"If _I_ remember correctly," Zelda says, eyeing him up. "You like ice hockey?"

Wait, he does? I swing to face him, but his face is devoid of emotion.

"Yes," he says. "I play on my university's B team."

"Whoa!" I cry, which actually startles him. "How long have you been playing? What position? Did you see that incredible women's friendly between the Bankston Baboons and—?"

"Two years. Defenceman." His eyebrows curve. "And no. The Selection has been… distracting, for the last two weeks. I don't tend to watch big league games anyway."

"Oh. Of course." _Stupid Gail,_ I chide. _Not everyone's an ice hockey nerd like you and Zel._

"Hey, I love ice hockey too!" Ben laughs sheepishly. "Figures I guess, being a northerner…"

"You're from Calgary, right?" Zelda asks, and I already know where this is going.

"Yeah. More of a Columbia Canucks fan myself, but I will always feel some love for my local team."

Zelda coughs, but it sounds suspiciously like "The Calgary Canaries suck", to which Ben makes an offended gasp, and the two end up bickering the whole way back. Soren doesn't input anything else, and I can't blame him.

Sheng meets my eye, and it burns with so many questions. _Are you okay, really? Are all of the Selected boys treating you right?_

 _Are you going to ignore me forever?_

It's so overwhelming that I have to break off.

Maybe we'll do this dance forever. I can't face my feelings now, not when he so crushingly threw me aside weeks before. He might be able to publically court me now, but though the Selection has mended his heart, mine is still in pieces.

And it's not so easy to glue it back together like nothing has happened.

I don't say anything else for the rest of the journey.

* * *

 **A/N:** So here's our first few Selected! What did you think? Hope you enjoyed the chapter!

Absolutely knackered so short A/N today, but I did manage to get some of my outline done and now I have direction for the next few chapters, but I'm still on Chapter 7, so if I make decent headway in 8 by next week then you will definitely get a chapter next Sunday. If not, expect it sometime afterwards.

FYI, for everyone who is not Dutch, Bezuidenhout-Leeuwenhoek is pronounced beh-ZOY-den-out LAY-when-hook, and yes, it was deliberately chosen for it's length (sorry not sorry).

Thank you for your reviews, and thanks for reading!

~ GWA

NTT: "Once I gain enough clout as having the tastiest blueberries, I will monopolise the blueberry market, because no one can compete with a person who can conjure them infinitely, and then I will rule the blueberry world."


	6. Weird Questions, Weirder Answers

Back at the palace, I smooth my dress down as I prepare for the quick-fire questions with the Selected.

The studio is transformed into a cosy space, with a long, pink lounger for me, a mahogany coffee table, and then another, duskier pink for the Selected. There's even a lit candle on the coffee table, next to a tray of shortbread, and the lights are dimmed for that sensual, intimate feel.

Of course, it would be more intimate without, you know, the big cameras zooming into my face.

Roy approved of the idea when I asked him. _It'll give the nation the opportunity to get to know them,_ he said first, before adding, _as well as giving_ you _the opportunity to get to know them._

Kind of bitter he said _nation_ first, over _me,_ but I understand he has Illéa on the brain. I can only hope the footage of the cemetery visit is a successful, if not thoughtful, start to opening the Selection, and though this will be vastly more entertaining, at least the little excursion proved my dedication to mourning the fallen.

Zelda plonks herself next to me, and her black dress fans out on the sofa. In her hand are a deck of notecards, and she shuffles them, eyeing the cameras.

"Thank god this won't be live."

"What makes you say that?"

Her grin is wicked. "You'll see."

My cheeks puff. "I thought we agreed no rude questions."

"There are no rude questions. Sheesh, there are children watching this, Gail." She hands the wad to me. "But no cheating, no skipping, and no looking ahead. You ask what's on the cards, and if you can and if it's natural enough, bounce a conversation."

The first card says, 'ya like jazz?', which is relatively harmless, if not… weird.

"What if it's something I really, _really_ don't want to ask?"

"Listen, all these were approved by your brother. He agreed that asking all of these will accentuate your cutesy princess image."

I wince. Roy really had to go and approve of 'ya like jazz?', didn't he?

"All right."

But the grin on Zelda's face doesn't imbue me with any hope. She zips off at the producer's request, and final checks are implemented before the first Selected is asked to join me on the sofa.

 _Ansel Hewlett,_ I recall. _Quantum physics student._

He looks like a quantum physics student too, not to stereotype, as there's a handsomeness about him that seems shadowed by the callous way he absorbs every detail: me, the set, the cameras, the notecards. Every part of him is pale, from his blond hair combed to the side, to his light blue eyes, to his skin, so white it's vampiric. Even the outfit he wears is a simple light grey suit.

Ansel sits on the edge of the sofa, hands clasped in front of him.

"Good morning, Your Highness," he greets with something I think is supposed to be a smile, but it doesn't reach his eyes. It isn't a nervous thing, though. More… exasperation.

Nonetheless, I smile. "Good morning," I chirrup. "How are you today, Ansel?"

His gaze drifts around. "Well."

I clear my throat. "Are you ready?"

"Yes."

I nod to the producers, and they give us a five second countdown before rolling begins.

I poise my first question. "Ya' like jazz, Ansel?"

This must throw him completely off-guard, because his face just stuns for a good five seconds. "Pardon?"

"Ya like jazz?"

"I… do not. Not particularly." His expression works. "It's too… busy."

"What makes you say that?"

He rolls his hands. "Too busy, as in… too upbeat, I suppose. I like music that will help with thought and visualisation, not hinder it."

"You wouldn't listen to music casually? Maybe to just chill?"

He shrugs. "Perhaps. Not often, though."

I'm not sure what to make of the answer, so I go to the next card.

"What is your honest opinion of the colour pink?" I read. "And be brutal."

His mouth forms a thin line. "It's… a colour."

"But do you like it?"

"… Am I supposed to?"

"It's my favourite!"

For the first time this meeting, he quirks a smile – a real one. "I can see that."

I don't want to go too defensive of the best colour in existence (fight me), so instead I sit up and brush the thoughts from my head. "What's _your_ favourite colour, then?"

"Red." Then his lips crinkle. Just a little. "Or green. I find I can never decide."

"Like a stop light? Like Christmas?"

"Like red and green."

Hmph, fine.

"Last question." I slide to the next card. Not too bad. "Would you rather always wake up an hour early or always wake up ten minutes late?"

"Early, of course." No elaboration. It's a logical answer that comes purely out of efficiency.

Somehow, after knowing him for a grand total of two minutes, I expected no less.

I place the cards on my lap. "Thank you, Ansel. That's all."

He stands, says, "Thank you for your time, Your Highness," and briskly walks off.

Okay, well, he's not rude, so I guess that's a neutral point. Because of the situation, there will be some guys who're going to be odd, strange, weird, maybe aloof. It seems like Ansel has never interacted with a person before, let alone a princess. But maybe he will warm up as time goes on, and I mentally add him to my Not To Immediately Despatch list.

I catch Zelda snickering to herself, and quickly zip to her. "What?"

"That Ansel guy was stiff as a board. You should see the footage."

"Your Highness? It's nice to meet you."

I spin. First thing I see is a mound of blond, curly hair, piled upon a lanky figure with his arm extended out to me.

"Parker Zaleski," Zelda says by way of greeting.

 _The comic store clerk,_ I remember. _From Denbeigh._

"Lady Zelda, too," says Parker. "Nice to meet you both." He sticks out his other hand, so it looks like he's offering a hug and not a double-handshake, but he retreats quickly and laughs. "Ah, s-sorry. I'm just— just freaking out a little."

"That's okay. I'm happy you decided to introduce yourself to me before we recorded together. It always helps to break the ice."

"Of course!" He grins, and it's like a literal ray of sunshine – so much that Zelda squints. "I'm excited to get to know you this Selection, Your Highness."

"Shall we sit?"

Zelda waves us on, and I reclaim my spot and cards on the sofa. When the cameras roll, I hold up the first card, and I have to seriously withhold my cringe. "What's your favourite Pokémon?"

Luckily, Parker seems to know what this means. His mouth moves a mile a minute. "That's easy. Zebstrika. It's fast, it's agile, it's cool. It has _lightning_ _bolts_ in its fur. It's got e-everything!"

What the heckity heck is a Zebstrika?

He sits forwards, his foot restlessly shaking like he's milking the ground. "Do you have a favourite Pokémon, Your Highness?"

"Erm… Pikachu?"

"Classic!" He laughs. "What's the next question?"

 _Something I understand, maybe?_ I slip to the next card. "If you could only have one ice cream flavour for the rest of your life, what would it be?"

"Oh. That's a hard one." He sits back, but there's no pause, no moment to consider. "My instinct would be chocolate, but I don't know if I could go forever without having pistachio once in a while. That s-stuff is just ambrosia, you know? But chocolate is a traditional and you can never get f-fed up of it. Like, if you had p-pistachio every day, you'd eventually h-hate the t-taste, but ch-chocolate—"

"Wait. Pause the broadcast." When the cameras cut, I lean forwards. "Are you… okay?"

Parker's face lights up like a firework in a dark sky. "O-Okay? I-I'm fine." A flush drags down his neck, practically sunburns him.

"You're…" I feel bad for being so blunt. "You're stammering so much, though…"

"Oh. Yeah. Er." He rubs the back of his neck. "Sorry. Sometimes I get too excited and it happens…" He takes a long breath – now _this_ is a pause, a ponder, and it releases his energy like a tyre deflating. "I'll stay calm."

"It's not a problem, don't worry. I just wondered if you were okay to continue."

He doesn't miss the question in my tone, and smiles. "I'm fine. Thank you for asking."

When we resume the broadcast, I allow him to finish his train of thought, but he seems to struggle a lot less now and instantly chooses chocolate ice cream.

"Okay, final question." I glance and it, and it literally makes me want to slam my head against the armrest. "What's your favourite… colour highlighter…?"

Parker bursts out laughing. "What?"

I throw up my hands. "I did _not_ write this question!"

"Well, er… I guess I'll go with traditional yellow. It feels very…" He rolls his hand. "Highlighty."

I will have to kill Zelda later. Parker leaves with a sketched bow, and I don't even get the opportunity to stand before the next Selected sits opposite me. It's Valerian Griffin, with the moon-white skin and the smouldering grey eyes that make me glad I am not currently using my knees for support.

Everything about him seems so graceful. Not to mention _hot._

"Good afternoon, Your Highness," he says, so smooth it's practically ASMR. His grin is so easy. "How are you today?"

"Erm…" I'm momentarily stunned. He's one of the only Selected with long hair, and today he's half-tied it into a bun. It's the type to flow gallantly in the wind with sunsets and explosions in the background. "Yes. Good. I'm good, thank you."

"Excellent. I'm Valerian Griffin, if you didn't know." Valerian relaxes into the chair. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

 _Model,_ I hear in Zelda's voice. No wonder he looks like he could've walked straight out of a magazine.

I clear my throat of my sordid thoughts. "It's nice to meet you, too. Ready for the questions?"

"Some of them are… random," he says, with a laugh. "I don't think I'm fully prepared."

 _Neither am I._ The cameras roll.

And of course the first question makes me question my entire friendship with Zelda.

"Why are you so good-looking?"

Valerian's laugh is a baritone boom that echoes throughout the studio. I must be flushing all the way up to my ears when his laugh becomes a chuckle.

"You didn't write that, did you?"

"Absolutely not." I stick my tongue out. "But I think it's a fitting question anyway."

"Thank you. To answer…" He shrugs. "I suppose my parents have good genes."

"Lucky you," I say.

"You are very cute, yourself," he says, with an irresistibly genuine smile that makes me blush again. "Your parents have good genes, too."

"I'll tell my mom you said that. She'll love it."

He laughs again. "Please, the next question."

I shuffle the card to the back and read, "If you had to choose three languages to be able to speak, which would you choose, and why?"

"English," he begins, "for its common usage around the world. French, as I am also fluent in it and love its sound. My last one… perhaps Chinese? I have travelled frequently there for my job, and it would be much easier if I could at least read the signs."

All good answers. "Lastly: you have to duel a dragon one-on-one to win the princess trapped in the castle. What's your tactic?"

"A good ol' fashioned sword," he says. "I would like to win her heart the chivalrous way."

Darn him and his charm, I'm going to melt on camera. I quickly nod for the broadcast to be over.

"Thank you. Those were some great answers."

"No, no, thank you." He comes up, takes my hand gently and kisses the back. "I'm thrilled to have this opportunity."

His grin makes me grin giddy. "I'm thrilled to have you here."

After he heads to the refreshment table, and a runner hands me a cup of water, Zelda saunters up to me.

"The whole way through that, you looked like a literal keyboard smash. Like every time he smiled, you were about to spew the word _asdfghjkl_."

"Oh, shhh. Have you seen him?" I whisper. "He's so hot!"

"Oh yeah," Zelda says low. "Don't worry, the sprinklers are working and I have 911 on speed dial."

I nudge her and she giggles. Meanie.

After a short break, the broadcasts resume. Unfortunately, it's Jacob Lance McKenzie, the one who was talking smack with Jerk— er, _Jon_ Sun at the cemetery. I speed through the questions, and his answers never feel quite as genuine since I overheard him. Mental note: eliminate, as soon as possible.

A few more forgettable entries, plus Ben Santiago, Silas Braxton, and Dominik Giles, have their interviews before Elliot Sawyer perches on the edge of the chair. The hockey player! His name and image is already seared into my head, which isn't hard when he's distinctively built. _Chonk,_ I guess Ben would call him, but not in a Sheng way. More in a rounded, agile way.

"All right, Princess?" he greets, in that northern accent of those native to Whites.

"I am. How are you?"

"Kind of nervous actually. I'm… not sure what to expect."

"Just be yourself. That's what I'll be doing."

He nods. "Solid advice."

When the cameras roll, I adjust my notecards. "First question, Elliot: if you could have one useless superpower, what would it be?"

He chuckles lightly. "Probably to always catch a pizza when I throw it into the air."

"That's specific," I say suspiciously. "And a fast response."

"Experience has taught me many things," he says, "including that, no matter how many times I develop my skills at making fresh pizza, I will always miss one and it will splat to the floor."

Can't argue with that.

"What about you?" he says, shuffling into the chair. His hair is gelled, just slightly, so it barely moves when he does. "What would your useless superpower be?"

I grin. "Zelda and I had an in-depth discussion about this once." Which is probably what inspired the question. "I would like to conjure super tasty blueberries whenever I like."

Elliot's eyebrows jump. "You like blueberries, huh?"

"Oh, I love them. But see, that's the trick." I waggle a finger. "I start to sell the blueberries. Once I gain enough clout as having the tastiest blueberries, I will monopolise the blueberry market, because no one can compete with a person who can conjure them infinitely, and then I will rule the blueberry world."

He actually blanches. "That sounds more like a supervillain origin story. If you were, you know, getting revenge on the blueberry market."

I shrug. "Zelda just wanted to be able to make the most realistic fart noises with her mouth to scare people off."

From the side, she yells, "Hey!" and we laugh.

The next card slips forwards. "There are two red buttons. One brings world peace, and the other gives you a million dollars." I squint. "What would you spend a million dollars on?"

Elliot's laugh is richer this time, like he's finally relaxing. "I think I'd hit the _World Peace_ button. I'd feel too guilty knowing I didn't. But… probably buy my own ice hockey stadium. Or a pizza restaurant."

Trying _not_ to squee at the mention of ice hockey, so instead I focus on the restaurant. "You like pizza, then?"

"They're my blueberries," he says with a grin. "If I could conjure those infinitely I'd monopolise the pizza market…" He leans forwards. "You're an ice hockey fan if I remember correctly, right, Princess?"

"Of course! I live and breathe ice hockey. Who's your favourite team?"

"University of Anchorage." He rubs the back of his neck. "That's who I play for, after all."

He's an intramural player! How cool! I don't watch college games very much, but I do like to keep in-the-know about how well each team is doing, and if memory serves, Anchorage are doing really, really well.

"Do you play hockey, Your Highness?"

"Oh, no, not more than for fun on our mini ice rink." My shoulders fall. "It's not a sport for a princess." _Too unsafe,_ Roy says, and though he's right, my chest constricts, and I quickly veer the subject away."If you're from Anchorage, are you a Winter Whites fan, too?"

"I can't _not_ support the local team."

"The women's team are doing well. Not so sure about the men."

"Smashing it," he says. "The defenceman from University of Fairbanks was brought onto the team—"

"Cut!" Zelda stomps onto the set. "Come on, you gotta' talk about something interesting!"

The utter hurt that crosses my face right then. "But hockey _is_ interesting—"

"Yeah, _I_ know that, but, like… half the population of Illéa will fall asleep _._ You have to ask the questions to interest the audience to you and your man. This is Selection 101, Gail."

"Wait." Elliot's eyes sparkle. "You're a hockey fan too, Lady Zelda—?"

"No distractions!" She leers at him, comically, but Elliot flinches a little under her gaze. "But yes. The Calgary Canaries suck."

"Hey!" shouts Ben from somewhere.

"Fine, fine," I grumble. "We can always fangirl-slash-boy _off_ camera."

Elliot grins. "Looking forward to it."

Is that… like a date? _Yes— wait, no,_ my two sides battle in my head. Casual as it sounds, nothing is ever _casual_ in the Selection. Zelda makes a face at me – like she can sense that too – before she darts off and the broadcast resumes.

No matter if I agreed to fangirl with Elliot about hockey over dinner, it's something I have to ponder about later. I clear my throat, and ask the last question.

"Chicken wings. Spicy or no?"

"Spicy all the way. You?"

"Spicy," I say. "Korean food has prepared me for such a moment."

We take a small break to let me gather my head after so many interviews, so many new people. Zelda and I discuss the Selected we (and by _we_ I definitely mean _I)_ have met.

"How's it going?" a new voice cuts across.

Roy pats my shoulder. There are bags under his eyes today, so I suspect he didn't get much sleep, but I'm smart enough not to comment.

"Good," I say. "Everyone's nice. Well, except one who I've already eliminated. Jon Sun."

I thought he'd be surprised, but instead, Roy nods. "Good. Don't hesitate. If your gut feeling says something is off, trust it." He glances at Zelda, then back at me. "You can send the boys along to the Men's Parlour when they're done. Cami, Rudy and Romilda are waiting to meet them in person."

That's the politics teacher, etiquette teacher and general advisor accounted for.

"What about the history teacher?" I ask. "Did you… did you find someone?"

"Yes. Screened thoroughly. I interviewed him myself, and he seems keen about history and learning, so I'm sure he'll be a great addition to the Selection team. You'll meet him tomorrow."

I can't help but feel nothing but dread that I have to wallow in these lessons when there's so many other things I could be doing. Like trying on dresses, or watching ice hockey, or plotting revenge against Sheng.

Roy passes Zelda a smirk. "Are the questions going well?"

"Gail has exclaimed twice about how she has not written these questions, and once about how much she hates me, so I'd say… swimmingly."

They pass conspiratorial smiles.

"You're both mean," I say, which only pulls harder at their cheeks.

Roy makes his way back to the door. "I look forward to watching these interviews when they air. Once that's over, we'll organise your first… excursion."

He leaves before I can demand the answers now. Where will it take us? _Who_ will I take?

What will I have to do to kerb the impending Rebel Resurgence?

The questions hangs over my shoulders as I return back to interviews.

* * *

I complete a few more rounds of questions before we break for lunch. The Selected stretch and chatter amongst themselves as we regroup with the other boys in the Men's Parlour. It's nice to see some of them are already friendly with my family and family friends – Romilda already has Valerian Griffin hanging off her arm, no doubt bonding over their modelling careers, and Rudy seems to be mid-conversation with quiet Soren Reinhart. He's probably squeezed more words out of him than I managed to do at the cemetery and his questions combined.

The dining room is exquisitely decorated for the Selected's first meal. The dusk pink tablecloth matches the gold-accented tableware and the rosy drapes, and the napkins are folded to look like swans. Impressed whistles echo across the room as they absorb the area.

The room flashes, and at first, I think it might be lightning. Turns out to be a few photographers, ones I recognise from the cemetery.

"Please smile and wave, Your Highness!" they crow. I almost don't, because I'm more confused than complicit, but training wins me over, and I smile and give a little wave.

Once satisfied, I go to the head table. Roy, Cami and Tay are already there. Tay, I can only guess, was just dropped off by Regan the childminder, because he sits on Cami's lap and buries his head in her neck.

"I don't like strangers!" he protests. "They're looking at me!"

"That's because they've never seen you before, and they're all really excited to meet you." Cami strokes his head. "I promise you, Tay, they're all very nice."

"Photographers?" I mutter to Roy.

Roy attempts to pry Tay off Cami but gives up half a second in. "Yes. Is there a problem?"

"There's no problem, but… why are they here? We're eating."

"They need to get some decent shots of you sitting together." He nods his head towards the table. "You should be joining them."

That's when I realise my place isn't set.

"Wait. Like, _literally_ joining them? Sitting with them? Eating with them?"

"Sure," says Roy. "Get some good pictures, make some good impressions, eat some good food and meet some good company." Tay makes a whimpering noise, and Roy sighs. "Hey, Tay, why don't you and Gail go meet some of the Selected?"

"Scary." It comes out muffled against Cami's dress.

"If you're a brave boy, we can make a pie together tomorrow. How does that sound?" I ask, because that's Tay's weak point. Baking.

His head shoots up, but he frowns. "You're just saying that."

"Pinkie promise."

His face tightens, but he reluctantly climbs off Cami's lap and tucks his finger through mine. A pinkie promise is sacred, and must never be broken, so I mentally clear space in my schedule to bake with Tay.

"Where shall we sit? I'll let you choose."

Of course, he picks the seats with the least number of bodybuilder-esque boys. We pass Sheng on the way, who makes eye contact with me, and I'm suddenly grateful not to be stuck in an awkward lunch next to him. His questions I still have yet to do.

So Tay picks his way over to Jeremiah Hill and Avian Homes. Both go absolutely quiet upon our approach.

"Hello, Jeremiah, Avian. Tay and I would like to join you for lunch today, if you don't mind?"

"Sorry," says Avian, accent lightly fluttering with a New Zealand twang. "This seat is taken."

I ghost out of my heels. _I, Princess Gail, first of my name, Darling Royal, have been outright rejected, tossed aside, torn asunder._

Then he grins. "Kidding. I'll scoot over for the lil' prince."

My ghost returns. Of course it was a joke. I knew that. Obviously.

As I sit and Avian arranges Tay's cushions, Jeremiah laughs awkwardly. "I thought he was being serious for a second."

"Me too," says Tay, which makes us both chuckle.

We settle into the chairs, Tay clutching my arm to my left. Directly opposite me is the guy in the ugly green suit – Jasper Korrapati. The pattern looks like a kaleidoscope vomited on his jacket and trousers, but he seems so wildly ignorant of his unusual wear that he barely bats an eye at my confused ogling.

Even when he finally makes eye contact with me does his face stay that same, empty void.

"Are we having cereal?"

I blink. "Pardon?"

"Cereal," he muses. "I would really like some Coco Pops."

"Some what now?" Avian says as he takes his seat.

"You mean Cocoa Rice Krispies, Jasper?" says Jeremiah.

"No, Coco Pops," Jasper says, absolutely deadpan. "Because Coco Pops and milk make a bowlful of fun."

No one says anything at the moment. I'm confused, Jeremiah's confused, Avian looks like he tripped headfirst into a funky mushroom. Even Tay has his eyes narrowed.

Jasper shrugs. "I felt compelled to say that for some reason."

"Okay…" It might've been awkward, but at least sitting with Sheng would've, you know, made sense.

As the light soup is served, Avian nudges me.

"Don't mind Jasper. He's… weird… Like, I like the guy, but he's… weird…" He holds out a hand. "Avian Homes, since _I_ feel weird not introducing myself to you personally, Princess Gail."

We shake hands. I remember Avian from his form so clearly; skin a sunny tanned, easy brown eyes. The wholesome smile, the confident way he addresses me, the quiff hair as red as a carrot—

 _Dang it, June!_ Though looking at his hair in real life, it doesn't seem entirely natural.

"Your form says you lived in New Zealand," I say instead of blurting about any dyes or orange vegetables. "I like your accent."

"Thanks. Grew it myself." He winks. "But yeah. Five years in Wellington. It's… different. Definitely different to right here." He gestures to the dining hall, but I presume he means the palace as a whole.

I wish I could say, _I understand,_ but obviously I don't since this is where I've lived my whole life. This conversation is going great on my end.

"Do you like it here? At the palace, not Illéa as a whole."

"I've only been here a few hours and it's fancier than anywhere I've ever been in my whole life." At my pause, he grins. "That means yes, I like it very much here. Good inspiration for my music."

I wrack my brain so, _so_ hard, but no matter how much I try, I can't remember what type of music he means. Palaces and balls are associated with classical, right?

Luckily, he continues. "I like to compose EDM."

"EDM?"

"Electronic dance music," he fills in.

Which is… totally _not_ a palace vibe. It's practically the opposite.

"Just imagine a sick electronic violin with keyboard backing. Maybe I can remix some old classical music into some sweet new tracks."

"Well, I'd like to hear it, if you do. Palace-inspired EDM."

"If you ever hold a ball, forget the orchestra. I will gladly offer to DJ."

It's meant as a joke, but I actually like that idea. Modern balls for modern people.

As we settle to eat, Tay squeaks when I don't blow on the spoon first to cool the soup down.

"You'll burn your tongue!"

I giggle. "I'll be fine, Tay."

"It's not so hot, Your Highness," says Jeremiah next to him. He takes a comically large gulp of his spoon and then waggles his tongue. "See? No burn."

Tay takes a tentative sip of his soup and, deeming it cool enough, sips another spoonful, and then another, legs swinging beneath the table. A camera flashes around me, but I'm too distracted to find the source.

"Wow, this soup is delicious," Jeremiah notes, and he looks at me. "You eat like this all the time?"

I'm startled at how green his eyes are. They're like gemstones, shot through with a million different shades that seem to glitter in the light.

"Your eyes are so pretty."

His turn to be startled, because I realise I said that aloud. Oops.

Jeremiah laughs and rubs the back of his neck. "Thanks. Got them from my dad." He must be mixed, judging by his brown skin tone and his defined features. "Your, er." He clears his throat. "Your eyes are pretty, too."

"If Gail's eyes are pretty," Tay asks before I can say anything, "does that mean my eyes are pretty, too?"

"Absolutely," he replies, no hesitation. "All Schreaves have pretty eyes."

Tay glows a little. _So. Freakin'. Cute._

"Don't tell Roy you said that," I say. "He'll be boasting about it for days."

"Really?" Jeremiah lowers his voice, and his green-gemstone gaze drifts to the head table. "Honestly, even with the jokes he made this morning, King Roy seems so… serious."

"Serious?"

But I get that. On camera, Roy exuberates that confidence, that pride, that royal presence that I entirely lack. It's probably all his training and required need for professionalism that gives off the impression, but most of the time, he's just my dorky older brother.

"He's really nice. Not scary at all. The Men's Parlour this morning? Times those bad jokes by ten, and that's him normally." I cant my head. "Until you make him angry, that is."

"Trust me," says Jeremiah, "I will not be doing _that_ any time soon."

The main dish arrives, one I especially chose for today: a Korean barbeque. Attendants place grills intermittently between us and plates of ready-to-roast food scattered around. Beef, pork, and chicken simmers in the air. With rice, noodles, and _banchan_ – side dishes – like fermented cabbage, pickles, and slices of eggplant, there's more than enough for everyone, and many mouths water.

Eating is mostly a quiet affair. Despite the almost casualness of the meal choice, conversation is a polite din. Avian on my right is vegetarian, so I have the whole grill to myself, and I pile on as much _bulgogi_ – beef – onto the grill as I possibly can.

"The smell doesn't turn your stomach, does it?" I ask him.

"Nope. Just the taste." He nods his head. "Thanks for your concern, though."

As I eat, I naturally can't help but watch Jasper. Say what I will about him, but he is a total pro at chopsticks. He plucks each grain of rice with such precision that I am almost in awe of this talent.

"You're enjoying it, Jasper?" I ask across the table.

He takes a moment to finish chewing. "It is… salty."

Oh. "Is that… good?"

After another second, the tiniest smile tugs the corner of his mouth. "Yes."

Getting his approval feels like I've moved a mountain.

He doesn't make an attempt to hold the conversation, so I mostly chat to Avian, Tay and Jeremiah. When the meal finishes, I'm so stuffed I think the zip on my dress will explode. My eyes wander to see how everyone else is feeling, but of course, they snag on Sheng, who is still politely tucking into a helping of noodles. Knowing him, probably his third.

Dread fills the crevices of my stomach more than the food. I still have to interview him. I'm not sure how they divided the order, but I can imagine Sheng wanted to go last. To leave an impression, to make sure I know that he's here.

When lunch is officially over, I get an hour to refresh in my room before I head back down to the studio. It's emptying fast since I'm nearly done, and most of the boys will be waiting in the Men's Parlour.

They know what comes right after the first meetings.

Surprisingly, I'm calm about it. I have a pretty good idea about who to keep. Some of the Selected are so forgettable it's like they don't even have names.

"Your Highness! Thank you so much!"

I cannot mistake the chirrupy voice that is Levi Song. He comes up to me from behind, almost by surprise, to pick me up, swing me around, hug me tightly. I flinch at first, but quickly melt when I realise how good he smells. It's that light, husky scent that strums all the right fibres across my chest.

He lets go too quickly, still grasping my sides. "I really appreciate it!"

"Thank you?" I say, still a little dazed. "What do you mean?"

"You must have read my form. My favourite food is _bulgogi._ And that Korean barbeque… ahhhhh…"

I'm so overwhelmed by his energy that I have to take a moment to breath. Right, yes, I do vaguely remember that, but I definitely picked the barbeque because _I_ liked it. Not for anyone else.

Nonetheless, it's nice to see him smile, and now I can see why he's such a popular K-Pop idol in Korea. And here, too. He has that winning appearance; everything about him works, to the sharp jawline, infectious smile. Right up to his puppy-dog eyes (which do not sparkle like a thousand gemstones in real life, I am sad to say).

"Yes," I say, owning the moment. "I like _bulgogi_ too."

"It's the best." He nods his head and then winks. "Great minds think alike."

He takes my hand and pulls me to over where he's sitting. There's a little camera bag there, which he takes out to reveal a chunky Canon.

"I wondered if it would be all right if we could film a quick video together?"

"Why?" I ask, and gesture to the set. "You'll be on soon, anyway."

"I know, but I like to film a diary of my life, for my fans. The Levi Diaries." He pronounces this so proudly, chest puffed, that I chuckle.

"What do you want me to say?"

"Whatever you want!"

He sets up the tripod, and before I know it, we're recording.

"What'supL-Heartiesit'syourboyLeviwithaquickvideoforyouall! I'm finally at the palace of Illéa for the Selection of Princess Gail Schreave, and look who we have here!" He opens his hands dramatically towards me. "It's the princess herself!"

I wave. "Hello!"

"She's so cute!" Levi says in mock-whisper, before he winks at me. "We just had _bulgogi_ for lunch together, and it was great. I'm really excited to get to know her and all of the other boys. Stay tuned with mini-interviews with them, too. Gail is about to ask me some questions for interview, which will be airing soon!"

 _Gail?_ Well, that was quick.

"Princess." Levi flashes me a winning smile. "Would you be able to say hi to our Korean viewers? They're so excited to see you!"

" _Hello, Korea,"_ I pipe in my best Korean. " _I hope you will tune in to watch the Selection, Levi and I."_

"Ah, even her accent is cute!" Levi blubbers. "Thanks for watching, L-Hearties! BesuretolikesubscribeandsharethevideoandI'llbebacksoon. Love! You! All!"

He signs off by blowing a kiss, and then cuts the camera.

"Wow, you're a natural!"

I glow with the compliment. "Well, I have been in front of the camera my whole life."

"True, true." He holds my hands, cradles them in his own. "I really am grateful for this experience. I can't wait to get to know you." He winks again, and oh, my stupid heart just won't stop thundering.

I'm on cloud nine by the time I sit on the sofa, prepare my question cards. Zelda has finally appeared and waits on the side of the set, egging on my grin. It's all genuine, though – I can't stop smiling. Levi must have that effect.

Then the first person sits opposite for questions.

Sheng.

And my smile falls into the fieriest pits of heck.

* * *

 **A/N:** Well, poor Gail had to face the music eventually, right? I hope you all enjoyed the chapter :D

Next chapter will probably not be for another two weeks as I haven't even made a dent in Chapter 8, lolol. I have holiday off these two weeks though, so I hope to bang out a decent chunk. I'm also doing tratr for Camp NaNo, so my productivity should shoot skywards! (or... one can hope...)

What did you think of our next batch of Selected?

~ GWA

NTT: "It means that you will die within the next five years."


	7. Practice Your Smile

"I've been meaning to get a… quiet moment with you," Sheng says.

The studio seems to overheat. I don't know if it's my head, my chest, the temperature— something sparks enough of a visceral reaction that I'm stunned into silence.

Thank goodness the cameras haven't started rolling yet.

 _I knew I had to question Sheng eventually,_ I remember, trying to collect some of my scattered poise. _Why is this freaking me out so much?_

Maybe it's the fact that he's trying to interrogate me on why I've been giving him the silent treatment.

I gulp. "There are three cameras behind you. So you know."

"It's hard to miss." He squirms. "Since you're avoiding me… I guess I will have to take what I can get."

"I'm not avoiding you."

"You are."

"Ready to go, Your Highness?" calls the producer.

"One moment!" I sing back, before muttering to Sheng, "What do you want me to say?"

"I want you to acknowledge that I'm here. That now I'm… I'm worthy of you, Gail."

I can't. I _won't._

He had my heart and broke it. He may think now he is worthy to win it, when in reality, there is no chance. Not a single fragment of me wants to give him another speck of my time.

It's only for his grandmother that I'm doing this.

"You're here," I acknowledge. "What else?"

Hurt crosses his face. "You can't possibly expect me to sweep the past two months under a rug—"

"You mean like you did, when you broke up with me?"

"I broke up with you not because of _you_ , but because of _me_. Now I'm here, and we can date officially, and you're ignoring me—"

"Ready, Your Highness?" the producer cuts through, with brilliant timing.

"Yep!" I chirrup, replacing my working jaw with a feather-light smile.

Sheng sits back, shuts his mouth like a clamp. I suppose there's no problem with announcing publically that we were a thing, now that Sheng can be deemed 'worthy' of me, but I suspect if he agreed with the sentiment he would've already done it.

"Sheng, thank you for joining me." Without waiting for a response, I pluck the first card and read, "What's your funniest nickname?"

Okay. Not the worst start. I already know the answer.

His eyes slant to the cameras. It must be strange for him, to be the centre of attention when working with horses is such a quiet, solitary job. Compared to me, who is so used to a camera's gaze. He clears his throat.

"Chocolate Ninja."

I feign surprise. "Where does that come from?"

"I…" He sighs, goes a little red. "I was challenged to eat a whole candy bar in under a minute. I did it in thirty seconds." Soft eyes regard me. "I was promptly called Chocolate Ninja for my apparent ninja skills with chocolate."

The memory bleeds into my vision. I remember that night so clearly: a picnic in the maze in the palace gardens, hidden from view. The breeze was a warm caress against my bare arms, and it twirled through our hushed conversations and gentle snuggles. _I_ challenged Sheng to eat that candy bar. Laughing as hard as I was, I'm surprised we weren't caught then and there.

"That's a cute story." And it is. I cherish that memory, hold it close to my heart. It was the day I first kissed him, too (yes, _after_ he inhaled the chocolate). "It's very sweet to give you such a nickname."

"Yes," comes a robotic response.

So I let him stew on that, and move on.

"If you were stuck on a desert island, what one book would you want to have with you?"

I didn't think Sheng much a reader, but he immediately comes out with, "Chinese Cinderella by Adeline Yen Mah. Not for the surname." He smiles gently. "It's... old, but... a thoughtful read."

"Wow, how interesting." I try to pull up my enthusiastic _wow, how interesting!_ expression from some deep part of my soul. It fails. "Finally," I read the last card and baulk, "how has your life changed since your name was announced on the Report?"

Of course I have to ask him the deep, meaningful question. Can't we go back to _what's your favourite colour highlighter?_

Sheng shuffles again, then again, then once more, like a restless child called to the principal's office. The spotlight suits some and shuns others, but Sheng might as well be allergic.

"My life was… quiet," he says, also quiet. "I… liked it. Now everything is in upheaval, and I'm…" He takes a long breath that inflates his barrel chest. "I'm overwhelmed."

Something flickers within me. _Stupid pity._

"I liked knowing what was going to happen next, but thrust into the life of the Selection is… different." Not an inch of him moves. "But… but perhaps this life will be good for me. A step from my comfort zone."

Senior Mah's words echo in my head. _It would be… good for him to interact with more people, too. Perhaps even make some friends._

Well, he has plenty of opportunities to make friends. Thirty-four, to be precise. One thing Sheng and I share is our sheltered lifestyle – him leaving school at sixteen to work, me being a princess. There were no people to make friends, _genuine_ friends with. I have Zelda, but she's all I have. Sheng has no one.

"Maybe so," I hedge in the end. "Thank you for your time, Sheng."

He nods, but doesn't rise even after the producer calls _cut_ and there's a rush to reset everything. When I stand, Sheng follows, coming a little closer to me.

"I… I hurt you," he says, in the smallest voice. "And for that, I… I'm sorry. I had my own problems to work through, and now everything has changed. I know I may not survive the first elimination, but I hope… I hope you reconsider. I hope I can prove how much you really mean to me."

It fizzles between my ears, but before I can respond, Sheng steps off the set and leaves the studio. Suddenly, my dress seems too hot, too constricting of my waist.

Zelda materialises at my side, making me jump. Her shoulders hunch over her petite frame.

"What did Horse Boy say? And do I have your permission to pummel him yet?"

"Nothing unusual for him. And no, you may not."

She snorts. "Oh, yeah. He's lucky he needs a face for the cameras." She mutters something under her breath. "I still can't believe you're keeping him."

Neither can I.

She sighs. "All right, well, only a few more left."

The interviews progress, and Sheng mercifully leaves the forefront of my thoughts. Levi has his turn, a total natural in front of the camera, compared to a few more of the stiffer few, like Jasper Korrapati and Kajika Bahe. More than once do I spot sweat trickling down foreheads, so at least Sheng can breathe knowing he's not the only awkward lemon in the Selection.

At a break, Zelda patters onto the set and tugs my shoulder.

"Come on." She jerks a thumb over her shoulder. "You have to see this."

We sneak over to a gathering in the corner of the studio. It's Maurice Elsmore – the psychic's son – with Grayson Williams and Nathaniel Durham. They're hunched together, almost like penguins, so I can't actually see what they're doing until I go closer and peer around Nathaniel's huge back.

Grayson's palm is supine, and Maurice hovers over it. Delicate brown fingers trace the engraved lines on Grayson's skin.

"Oh. Oh dear. Hmm. No. This won't work at all. This line is so short."

Grayson goes dead still. "… What's that mean?"

"It means," Maurice looks up, absolutely deadpan, "that you will die within the next five years."

Grayson's jaw goes slack. Nathaniel coughs, tries to cover up his laugh.

Then Maurice smirks, flicks back a thick curl of dark brown hair. "I'm messing with you. Damn, Grayson, you were totally fooled there for a minute."

"Hmph." Grayson straightens his tie. "I was playing along."

"Of course," says Nathaniel, with an easy smile. "That's why you're going red right now."

The two chuckle as Grayson flusters. Only when Nathaniel shifts slightly does Maurice spot me and Zelda. He straightens up, pushes his shoulders back. Hands twitch at his side.

"Oh, er, hey. Princess Gail— Your Highness. And Lady Zelda."

Grayson turns. _Zookeeper,_ I remember from the forms. He doesn't look it – like, I don't know, I guess you'd expect a zookeeper to be soft and round like the animals he keeps, but Grayson is all hard edges and a rugged face. Opposite to his expression right now.

"Oh, Your Highness, Lady Zelda. We— I didn't see you there."

"That's okay," I say. "We're quite short in comparison."

Zelda snorts. "Speak for yourself."

"… You're the shortest here."

"Only by an inch, and I'm damn proud of it, too." She nods her head to Maurice. "What were you doing?"

He wiggles his fingers. "Reading Grayson's palm."

"Which he said he could do," protests Grayson.

Nathaniel chuckles. He looks a lot like Grayson, actually – both tall, white dudes with dark hair and eyes, but he leans in just a little bit more, like he wants to envelop himself in the conversation. He's a little more tanned, too, but I guess that's what happens when you live in Clermont.

"He actually said he knows _about_ palm-reading. Not quite the same thing."

Grayson sighs. "Yeah, fine. He got me."

"Pretty good." Maurice glows with smug pride and flicks back another curl. "You should've seen the look on your face."

They snicker and jostle one another – must be a boy thing – and happiness pools in my stomach. It's good to know that, despite only meeting properly a few hours ago, some of the guys already get along.

We get through the interviews easier now. I've been normalised against the potency of the questions, so even the strange ones, like _where do you buy your cologne?_ or _would you rather only age from the neck up or the neck down?_ don't bother me anymore. Maurice eases into the chair, Grayson lightens up, and Nathaniel cheerily rattles off his answers. None of these three strike me as too strange, clingy or mean, so they go to the Stay side for now. Zelda has to leave for her tutoring, so for the first time, I'm on my own.

When Nicholas Jacobs descends onto the sofa opposite me, I know I'm in for a strange time. He holds his head high, shoulders pulled back. Pride, haughtiness, I can't really tell, but it's his air that makes him distinctive.

I'm already on guard. Interviewing Jon Sun and Jacob Lance McKenzie was enough jerk-iness for me today.

Yet he greets, "Good morning, Your Highness," with a polite tone.

 _Law student,_ my memory crows. That explains _so_ much.

"Are you ready for the questions, Nicholas?"

"Please just call me Nick. And yes, ma'am. I am ready."

 _Please be serious questions,_ I think, as I take the first card. _Please._

"Do you wear socks to bed?"

Nick startles at the question as I feel a burning desire to become a pot plant.

"No," he says slowly. "No, I do not. Do… do you?"

"No. When I was fourteen, Roy told me that wearing socks to bed can cut off circulation, and I was too scared my legs would fall off."

"… You know that's a myth, right?"

I flush. _Dang it, Roy! Now I look stupid in front of a lawyer!_

"I… knew that. Definitely. But I don't get cold feet easily, so I don't need to wear socks to bed anyway."

His smile tilts, just a little. At least it's funny for _some_ people.

I hastily move on. "What type of vegetable would your pet be?"

What does that even _mean?_

Nick rolls with it. "I don't have any pets. I would've liked a cat, though. They're… cute."

"I want to get a pet, too!" I stare hard at the camera. _Please, Omma?_ "I have my horse Unicorn, of course, but she can't come inside, so it's not the same. I would like an adorable puppy called Milky Way."

"You've thought about this."

"Oh, absolutely. She will be a fuzzy golden retriever with whom I will play fetch in the hallways."

He chuckles. "I'm sure your family will come around."

"You're a lawyer, right? Can you… sue them into getting me one?"

He laughs a little more at that. "Not how it works, but I suppose I could always ask on your behalf."

Roy would totally back me up, too. In my head I rub my hands together. I will win her over eventually. Eventually…

"Last question," I say. "Have you made any friends among your fellow Selected yet?"

"Not yet, no, but it's early stages."

And he leaves it at that.

The last few Selected seem tired and stretched thin from nerves. I take another break to have my nose powdered, but when I return, not only are the last two Selected, Yamato Watanabe and Maximus Wellington, waiting for me, but also my lady's maid, Aderyn.

She looks picturesque in her classic maid's uniform, blonde hair bunched to her head in a neat bun, and a smattering of freckles across her pale skin. So obscenely tall that anyone could instantly mistake her for a thirty-year-old from behind, even though she's only twenty-one, she stands rank with Yamato and Maximus – even taller than Yamato. Her bird-like features preen into a smile as I approach.

"Your Highness, so sorry to interrupt." Her voice pitch is higher than helium, laced delicately with a Welsh accent. "Her Majesty's aircraft is due to land shortly. His Majesty would like for you to join him on the helipad to greet her."

"Thank you for telling me." I still have two interviews left, and it feels mean to leave them here while I wax poetic with Omma. As Aderyn scampers away, I turn to Yamato and Maximus.

"Want to come meet my mother?"

Yamato goes ramrod straight. "You mean… now?"

"Sure. She doesn't bite. I mean, she has, erm, _presence,_ but she's not scary." I take both of their hands and lead them to the doors. "And she really wants to meet the Selected."

"Won't she want to rest?"

"Hah! My mother doesn't know the meaning of _rest."_

We walk the halls in silence, escorted by Naomi and her contingent. Next to me, Yamato and Maximus keep stern pace. _The ice skater and the engineering student._ They're as different as oil and water – Yamato is thin, slender, fits eagerly into his three-piece suit, whereas Maximus Wellington looks more like a bodyguard than a Selected. He's in all black, with black rings that decorate his fingers like he missed the goth-punk convention next door, compared to Yamato's softer colour scheme. Neither attempt to make conversation, so I can only guess their frazzled nerves just got even frazzlier.

"She was on press tour in Korea," I say, if only to fill the empty halls. "She hasn't been home the whole time I've been preparing for the Selection."

"She'll be in for a shock," says Maximus. Even his gravelly voice has that _angsty-edgelord_ tone.

"She was very shocked when I announced it."

The phone call I got that day made me almost lose an ear with how much she yelled at me for keeping this secret. That neither I nor Roy alerted her in advance. I mean, I didn't tell her that it wasn't _planned_ in advance either, but she doesn't need to know that.

Wind cleaves through my short dress so much that I have to push down on the skirt to stop flashing everyone on the helipad. Guards surround the complex, armed, but it's Roy who stands most like a soldier, chin up, hands clasped in front of him in anticipation. Cami is by his side, hand tucked in Tay's.

"Gail!" he calls. " _Omma_ is home—!" Then he immediately shrivels at the sight of Yamato and Maximus.

Wisely, Cami squeezes his hand, but to me she raises an eyebrow. "You haven't finished interviews?"

"Not yet. I just had Yamato and Maximus here left to go, so I brought them with me."

She nods her head at them with a smile. "I'm sure you're both honoured to meet the queen mother first."

Yamato gulps. "That's one way to put it…"

Maximus' lip tilts.

Soon the helicopter touches down. Like a giant quarter, it gleams in the afternoon rays so much that I have to squint, and miss the moment my mother descends from the steps. Her hair matches the silver, pulled into a stringy bun, and the dark green _hanbok_ – a traditional Korean dress – that envelops her thin body flutters in the wind.

"Omma!" Tay shrieks, and suddenly he's bolting across the helipad and launching into her. Omma stumbles, but laughs, planting kisses on his scalp.

"You grew taller, Scamp." She scoops him into his arms, and his eyes bug with joy. "I thought I told you not to grow without me."

"Sorry," he mumbles. "I tried to stop, but I couldn't help it."

"I'm only kidding." She ruffles his hair. "Did you have a good time?"

"I baked a cherry pie two weeks ago!"

"That's wonderful."

"I saved you a piece!"

Omma laughs. "Scamp, it'll be mouldy."

He deflates, only for seconds later to say, "Then I gotta' bake another pie!"

"He did it with supervision, I swear." Roy goes next with open arms. Omma puts Tay down, and they fall into the hug. She's shrunk a little (Roy swears he grew, but that's definitely not true), so he envelops her like a bear, but still, she pets his cheek and pays no mind.

"Jun. Handsome as always."

"Thanks," he says. "Got that from Appa's side of the family."

She huffs at him, but the pair start laughing before long, and then she greets Cami with a big hug.

"Good to see you, Ji-Yu," Cami says. "You're looking well."

"And you, Camilla. I hope Roy has been behaving."

"I've been an angel," Roy protests.

Cami laughs. "He's been… Roy."

"Which means the _opposite_ of angel," Omma says pointedly, which provokes a _boo_ noise from Roy.

Now comes my turn. My arms are open. My heart is full. "Omma!" I cheer.

But the almost delicate nature of her arrival ends immediately when she stops short at me. Up close, her dark eyes burn like black flame.

"Well, well. Here's the little peanut in the middle of a Selection she conveniently _forgot_ to tell me about."

My cheeks puff. "Don't call me peanut."

People say she looks a lot like Roy, and similarities are striking. Same wide set eyes, same high cheekbones, same tightly-cut face. I've been looking at her all my life though, that I can't see it that way, so it's only when she quirks that half-smile that I do. Then they're the spitting image of each other.

She embraces me. "I'm glad you're having fun, Gail."

Hugging Omma feels like warm sunlight on bare skin. I missed the feel of her, the smell of her. Her voice, her company. It breathes an old nostalgia into my bones, one that no matter how old I become, will never go away when she's here.

She lets go and steps to the side. Facing Yamato and Maximus. Immediately, I notice Yamato's smile – a practiced one. I would know, since I've been practicing smiles all my life, and I suspect being a famous figure skater has done that for him, too.

On the other hand, the only thing Maximus does is take his hands out his pockets. He's the first to bow his head.

"Your Majesty," he greets.

If Omma is intimidated, she doesn't show it. Instead, she scrutinises him like he's an essay to critique. Typical.

"Maximus Wellington, if I am correct."

"That's right, ma'am."

"What do you do?"

He's placid as he says, "I'm an engineering student at the University of Atlin."

"Very good." She clasps her hands together. "And why did you sign up for the Selection?"

For the first time, there's a flicker of hesitation. It's as fleeting as a leaf in the wind, but I snatch the image and hold it close. _He does have emotions._

"My friends and I collectively decided to submit our names. I have high respect for Her Highness."

Omma nods once. Maximus must be a quiet soul with even quieter confidence to introduce himself like that to her. But her attention turns to Yamato, who dips into a bow as well.

"And Yamato Watanabe," she says. "It's a pleasure to see you again. First place, was it not?"

I search his face for some recognition, but it's perfectly flawless (like, this boy doesn't even have a zit scar. What sort of superhuman is he?), and he nods with that same smile.

"Yes it was, and I remember. It was an honour to meet you at the National Championships last year."

I vaguely remember something like that, but Omma gets invited to lots of things. National Ice Skating Championships? Sure. Why not.

"Why did you sign up for the Selection?"

"A change of pace," he offers. "I thought it would be a… different sort of competition to enter."

"Well," Omma says, looking between him and me, "at least you both have your love of the ice in common."

He nods his head, but doesn't look my way.

Roy comes up to us. "Attendants have your bags, Omma. Shall we head inside?"

"I have some interviews to finish," I say, as Tay tucks one of his hands into Omma's, and the other into Cami's. "We'll meet you later on."

As they depart for the Men's Parlour, Yamato, Maximus and I head back to the studio.

"I didn't know you met her before," I say to Yamato. "At the National Championships.

"I didn't think it was relevant, Your Highness." He shrugs. "It was only brief. She congratulated me on my win, and we took a photo together for the press. It was as much an honour then as it was just now."

I grin. "She still as _scary_ as you remember?"

"No, no!" He laughs, but it's dripping in nerves. "Like you said, she has presence."

"Well," I squeeze both his and Maximus' arms. "I'm sorry if you felt like you were being interrogated."

"Not at all." Yamato gives a light squeeze back.

I look up at Maximus. He's smiling. It's actually kind of cute.

"Her Majesty was lovely," he adds, and it makes me feel all warm inside.

The interviews pass in a flash, and I'm not surprised, when the cameras roll and Maximus gives his last answer, to feel nothing but relief. It was hard to learn names to portraits in the first place, but now there are so many other things crammed into my head. Faces that move, voices, mannerisms. It builds like a balloon with too much air.

Still, there's that one last duty I have to complete today. The one I said I would. Though the questions will air sometime tomorrow, I will make my first elimination today, and the losing boys will spend the night before departing in the morning.

And Sheng will not be amongst them.

I retire to my bedroom to freshen up. I'm sure, with Roy, Cami, Tay, Rudy, Romilda, and now Omma, there's enough to keep the Selected occupied in the Men's Parlour for a little while. I summon Aderyn, and she appears quick as a flash to help me refresh my make-up and fix my windswept hair.

"Do you like them all, Your Highness?" she asks in a quiet voice, gentle fingers massaging my scalp to extinguish a low ache in my skull.

"Oh, no, definitely not." I giggle. "Some of them are just awful. I've already sent one home."

She gasps. "So soon!"

"He was the worst. Trust me." I spill all the details as Aderyn looks shocked at all the right places.

"You were right to do it, Your Highness." Aderyn gives a firm nod before tugging my hair into a neat fishtail braid. "He _does_ sound horrible. Reminds me of one of my ex-girlfriends. She was frightfully obtuse about appropriate manners."

If Aderyn had not worked here for several years, I would be weirded out by her word choice.

"I'm sort of comforted to hear there are other people who have gone through it."

Her thin face pinches. "It's terrible, really. There's a place and time for everything. I suppose, no matter if you're a princess or a lady's maid, you will always meet someone who cannot see the wood for the trees."

A knock cuts through, and Zelda lets herself in. She makes a beeline for my desk and pulls out the forms.

"Right, girls! Dinner is soon, so are we ready to pick who gets the axe? Not literally, of course." Zelda straightens. "I have a _few_ ideas about who should go—"

But I interrupt. "This is _my_ Selection, remember?" Aderyn fastens the last hair into place and I rise, taking the forms from Zelda's hands. "I need to make the decision myself."

Zelda looks despondent, like I publically denounced her favourite ice cream flavour (which is vanilla, by the way. Whose favourite flavour is _vanilla?)_. Even Aderyn's gaze bounces between the forms and me, obviously curious as to who I will eliminate first.

"I appreciate all and every opinion, but the ultimate choice must be mine."

Aderyn nods. "Very wise, Your Highness."

"Oh, _fine,"_ Zelda huffs. "But I want a front row seat."

"Always." I flash a grin. "Besides, I already know who will get the metaphorical axe."

"Then what are we waiting for?" Zelda makes a dramatic gesture to the door. "I want to see the salt spilling!"

Aderyn makes last touches to my appearance before she, Zelda and I make our way back to the Men's Parlour. The noises breach even the hallway outside, and when the doors open, we are greeted by loud conversation, drinks clinking, laughter, even a little music lilting from a speaker system.

It's like a festive party. One I'm about to crash.

I don't even have to make an effort to catch everyone's attention. As soon as I walk in, voices trail off. Hands that go to shovel in food hover limply in mid-air. Eyes turn to me.

"Hello!" I say. Whoops. Too cheerful. _Tone it down._ "I'd like to make an announcement before dinner. If all the Selected could gather in the middle here."

The music stops, and the boys peel off from groups to form a central mass. I spot Sheng, but his gaze is the only one locked onto the floor.

Roy, Cami, Rudy, Romilda, Omma and Tay stand off to one side. Roy is smirking; he knows exactly what's coming.

"I want to thank you all for your patience and kindness today. It's been really enjoyable to get to know you all. However, this is still a competition, and unfortunately I cannot keep you all. If I call your name, would you kindly remain here?"

Boys shuffle and bounce on their heels. Looks pass between them.

Oh boy. As a torrent of guilt washes up my chest, it hits me how badly I didn't realise how much this was going to hurt.

"Jacob Lance McKenzie, David Atherton, Alex Simmons, Andrew Clay, Dave Carlyle, Dre Fox, Frederick Spencer, and Xander Wimbleton."

I take a moment to collect my breath. "If I didn't call your name, please make your way to the dining hall."

So the lucky boys begin to file out. Some pat the losers' shoulders, or exchange muttered words. They all know what's coming, after all.

Sheng doesn't share sentiments. He makes his way to the door, pausing briefly to fix me a bewildered look. It's that vulnerable state, again. One where he cannot hide his emotions, no matter how much he tries. The moment passes, he yanks his gaze forwards, and marches out of the parlour with the rest of the gentlemen.

As Kingsley makes his way along, I catch his arm.

"Would you wait outside for a moment?"

The look he gives is one of raw shock. _Is this an elimination?_ it screams. I give him a smile to assure him everything is fine, so he goes out with his usual swagger.

And I'm left with the losers.

"Ahem. Right." Roy heads to the doors. "We should go to dinner as well."

So my family and friends go, too. I'm on my own with Zelda and Aderyn, and neither of them are going to help me. It isn't Aderyn's place, and by the grin on Zelda's face, she's enjoying it too much to care.

So I gather my resolve. _Don't look at their faces._ "I'm afraid this is where our journey together ends. At our interviews, I didn't feel any connection between us. But I will be always thankful to have met you and for participating. You're welcome to stay for dinner—"

" _Dinner?_ " Jacob Lance scoffs. "No thanks. I don't want to sit with the boys who _made_ it."

There are some murmurs of agreement. Right. Yes. I didn't think of that.

"Well, the interviews and elimination will not be public until late tomorrow morning, so if not dinner, you are welcome to stay the night—"

"I just want to go home!" someone crows.

Zelda mutters, "Then go home, you miserable lout," luckily not loud enough for anyone to hear.

I relax my hands at my side. "If you wish to go now, go now. However, my offer still stands."

Most boys don't take it, making their way to the door to pack. Only two want to stay, and neither want to eat dinner with us either.

"Jon Sun was right," I hear Jacob Lance say, too loudly to be subtle. "No connection? Of course not. I wouldn't take _my_ Selected to a damn cemetery."

He leaves before Zelda can swing. Once they've all disappeared, and the room is empty, I collapse on the nearest armchair. Aderyn comes to my side, frowning.

"Don't listen to them."

"It's hard not to," I admit. "They're going to be hounded by the press tomorrow. And guess what they're all going to tell them?"

"Yeah? Screw them. _I wouldn't take my Selected to a damn cemetery."_ Zelda mocks his deep accent. "You wouldn't _have_ any Selected, Schmacob Schmance. No one would want to win your ugly butt."

Which gets a giggle from me and Aderyn. Unconventional her methods may be, but Zelda has always had a penchant for cheering me up with her… zeal.

I shoo the elimination from my head. "I should head to dinner. I have an escort waiting for me."

Outside, Kingsley inspects the closest suit of armour that lines the wall. Zelda and Aderyn pass a glance before leaving us alone.

"Your Highness," he says. "I hope the elimination hasn't shaken you."

"I'm fine," I say, offering my arm. He weaves his through, and I can feel the strong, corded muscles beneath his suit. "Do you like to bake, Kingsley?"

"I absolutely love to bake. It's one of my favourite past-times. Sometimes I bake so much I forget the time."

"Yay! I wanted to ask if you'd do me the honour of being my first date. Baking together. How does that sound?"

A grin overruns his entire, beautiful face.

"I would be honoured, Your Highness."

* * *

 **A/N:** So the first date goes to Kingsley! Gail couldn't resist... I hope you enjoyed the chapter :D

So now with introductions out of the way, we can finally dive headfirst into the Selection itself... fufufufu... Have any favourite boys so far?

I forgot to say this last chapter, but if you're curious about Selected Parker Zaleski, definitely go check out GingersnapBeat's **Snippet, Plus Some** which is... a snippet, plus some... on young Parker and his attempt to smuggle a snake out of school. It's super cute and well written and dshbkgks please go read it, it's so good!

As always, all love in the form of screaming reactions and capslock is appreciated.

~ GWA

NTT: "Do all your words have to be sexual?"


	8. A Bite at the Cherry

The next afternoon, Kingsley meets me at my quarters, and together we head to the kitchens. For the first date of the competition.

Nerves spill across me so violently that I shiver with every movement, and every noise makes my heart thunder in my chest. I have obviously been on many dates, but this is the first time I'm going out with someone whose name doesn't begin with _Sh_ and end with _Eng Mah_.

Kingsley was a confident choice. He seems to be an expert at everything; greeting me, taking my arm, escorting me along the hallways and paying no mind to Naomi skulking behind us. I have no doubt he's going to show me up today.

And since the history teacher hasn't arrived yet, I don't feel guilty whatsoever taking time off to have fun.

As we head down a final set of stairs for the servant's quarters, and the kitchens, he says, "You look beautiful, as always."

Which is something, since I'm wearing minimal make-up and a casual long-sleeved yellow plaid dress with no frills in anticipation of making a mess, but the compliment fuels me with the blushies anyway.

"Thank you. You look very handsome yourself." In his starched suit, silk shirt and huge sunglasses that hang off the pocket, it's like he's going to a business meeting, not a kitchen, with all the other illegally-hot models. "Though you always look handsome."

"Then we make for a very gorgeous pair, don't we?"

I have to change the subject before my heart gives way. "How often do you bake, Kingsley? You must be so busy in your job."

"It isn't that I have time, Your Highness," he says, with a wink. "It's that I _make_ time."

Oh, absolutely. If you enjoy something, you'll find a way to do it. I guess that's why, with everything else going on in my life, I still find time to sit down a watch a good ice hockey game.

When we reach the kitchens, Tay is already waiting outside with his childminder, Regan. Kingsley startles.

"What is His Highness doing?"

"He's joining us!" I say cheerily.

Judging by Kingsley's face, this is a small but _not_ minor detail that I forgot to mention. Oops.

"Joining us? During the date?"

Up until now I thought it was a cute idea, but a critique to my plans belatedly enters my head. _Wow, third-wheeling with the princess' brother. How romantic!_

"Yep." A promise is a promise though, and the one I made to Tay is unbreakable. "He loves to bake, and I promised we would together at some point. I thought to make a date of it since it would be good for him to get to know you all." I squeeze his arm. "You don't mind, do you?"

It takes Kingsley a moment. "Of course not. I love kids."

Tay doesn't seem so receptive. When Regan points us out, Tay squeals and hides behind Regan's legs. Even as I approach, Tay hides like a squirrel in the woods. Any moment and he'll try to climb Regan's leg in an attempt to escape.

"Tay, this is Kingsley Obasanjo," I say. "He's really nice."

As Regan attempts to pry him off his leg, he says, "I thought we were baking together," in a small voice.

"We are baking together."

" _Alone_ together."

I sigh and kneel to Tay's height. "Tay, the Selected will be here for a little while. You can't be scared of them forever."

"Watch me."

"Okay, touché. But come on. Kingsley loves to bake, did you know that?"

Tay peers around the leg to regard Kingsley. I hope that is less apprehension and more curiosity that twinkle in his eyes.

"… Really?"

"Really. He bakes so often he's pretty much a pro." I turn. "Aren't you, Kingsley?"

He takes a step back, and then forwards again, face full of pleasantries. "Yes. That is correct."

Tay is silent. "… Do you like cherry pie?"

"I… love cherry pie."

So Tay releases Regan's leg. "… Okay. He can bake with us."

Wow! It worked! I grin at Kingsley, and he smiles back, but it's less to-his-eyes than before.

Regan lets Tay into the kitchen, and we diligently follow behind. Here, Tay is in his element, and he's in charge; the head chef to our sous chef. The staff already have a little countertop for him, so we give the surface a quick wipe and prepare ingredients. Cherries, obviously. Granulated sugar, vanilla extract, cornstarch, eggs. The bakers prepared a pastry a few hours ago for us, a huge lump of dough wrapped in cling film that Tay's fingers sink into to test the buoyancy.

I procure two aprons from the spares and hand one to Kingsley. "You will need this."

Mine is an old tatty thing that says _Kiss the Chef,_ and when he reads the words, he sends a wink my way that flutters all my heartstrings.

"Is that a hint?"

"Maybe." Then I add, "If Tay isn't looking."

Tay has his own apron, dark blue pocked with gold stars that reads _Star Baker Tay Schreave_. Every time he has a growth spurt, the tailors have to make him a new one.

Kingsley looks down and frowns. "Why does my apron say _Prince Roy is Bae?"_

I read his front. So it does. "I have no idea." And frankly, I don't want to know.

Our ingredients gathered, we're set to begin. Tay finds his stool to stand on to reach the counter.

"Pit the cherries," he orders.

"Yes, chef," I say, giving him a mock salute, which makes him giggle.

Then he faces Kingsley. His smile shrinks.

Kingsley shuffles.

"Er… yes, chef?"

I nudge him, but he doesn't click.

"Salute," Tay says, stony-faced.

"Oh." Kingsley salutes. "Yes, chef."

Tay hunches his shoulders, but nods once. It's almost unnoticeable, but relief flashes in Kingsley's eyes.

As we work, I sneak glances at the pair. Tay normally wants to tell me all about his day or his latest baking triumphs or _something_ , but right now, his gaze is so solidly focused on rolling the dough that sweat dapples his forehead. On my other side, Kingsley works like a wraith, silent and unheard, his knife sliding through the cherries with precision. I can only guess the need to make a good impression weighs on him the same way Tay is nervous at foreign presence.

Once the cherries are pitted, and my hands are covered in juice, Tay inspects the bowl. Sniffs them once.

"I guess that will do."

"Ouch!" I say, feigning hurt.

His face is an emotionless vessel of nothingness as he points. "These ones are cut too small."

"Too small?" Kingsley interjects. "Your Highness, I chopped them myself. Lovingly."

"Too small." He turns back to the pastry.

Kingsley goes utterly stiff besides me. I wipe my hands before taking his.

"It's all right. You must make cherry pie differently from Tay."

"Yes," he says. "Yes. It's… different."

Next up is to add the other ingredients to the cherries. The mixture oozes a sweet scent that prompts some primal part of me to salivate, so we stick it in the fridge to rest as Tay spreads the pastry onto the pan and gently peels off the extra for the lid.

"You were a swimmer, right, Kingsley?" I say. "Before you were a model?"

Kingsley uses soap three times before drying them on a clean towel. "That's right. You know I used to swim for the national Allens team? Won many, many awards at championships." His pride his as obvious as a shining beacon. "I have so many trophies at home I don't know what to do with them."

"So why give that up? National championships are one step away from the Olympics."

"Oh." He waves his hand dismissively. "I wanted a change. The team was horrible. Modelling is much more fun, anyway."

It's sort of a sad admission, one I'm surprised to hear from someone like Kingsley, whose life seems to be one glittering star after another, but Tay interrupts.

"Crust is done."

I go to haul the bowl of cherries back out – Kingsley valiantly insists instead – and we pour the mixture into the pastry and spread evenly around the rim. There's so much it's like a little hill.

Then Tay looks at Kingsley. "Lattice."

"… What?"

"You're a pro," Tay says. "You can lattice."

Tay has already cut strips, ready to be laid out on top of the pie in the lattice pattern. I watch my little brother's eyes, startled to find a new gravity within them; he's testing Kingsley, stretching him and his baking mettle.

Kingsley grins. "I'll be happy to show Her Highness how it's done."

He lays the strips flat one way, then more strips parallel on top.

When a strip away from done, Tay says, "You're doing it wrong."

Kingsley ruffles like an insulted peacock. "This is the _correct_ way, Your Highness," he insists.

"No, it's not. You're making a criss-cross pattern. I wanted a lattice."

"That's what a lattice is. A criss-cross."

I can't help but giggle under my breath. Poor Kingsley, trying to go against my baking brother.

Tay shakes his head, comes off his stool, drags it over to Kingsley and then stands on top it again. "I can show you. You take the… erm… these strips between…"

"Intermittent," I say.

"The intermittident strips," he repeats. Sort of. "You fold them back, and then put the long strip across and fold them back over. Then you do it for all the strips."

He demonstrates; Kingsley has moulded his expression to one of pleasantness, but being shown up by my nine-year-old brother can't have felt too good. So as he watches, with a unique attentiveness, I take his hand and squeeze tightly.

"You try," Tay says.

Kingsley tries. "Like this, Your Highness?"

Tay nods. "Keep going. Keep going."

He may have learnt the skill precisely a second ago, but Kingsley doesn't fumble his lattice. Soon the pie is covered, and only tight square-shaped openings reveal the red filling beneath.

Tay nods. "That's a good lattice."

Kingsley raises his head, beaming. "Of course it is. I made it."

"I helped."

"You were a decent sous chef."

Tay giggles, which makes me giggle.

"Shall we put it in the oven?" I say.

"Egg wash first." Tay faces Kingsley. "Can you do that?"

"Yes, chef," Kingsley says, saluting, flashing me a grin.

He doesn't need to be told how to do this, thankfully, and since there are no objections afterwards to his technique, we slide the pie into the oven. Tay sits cross-legged to watch, head swinging back and forth in tandem with the timer.

As we lean against the kitchen countertop, Tay out of earshot, I say, "He likes you."

Kingsley winks. "I'm not sure how he couldn't, Your Highness."

"Hah, hah." It still makes me blush. "I mean it, though. Tay doesn't trust many people easily, so that he likes you enough to teach you how to bake is a good sign."

"Is it, now?" He watches Tay with an unreadable expression, hands knitting together in front of him "Prince Tay seems… perpetually cautious."

"Definitely. Not sure where he got that from."

"Certainly not you."

I stick out my tongue.

Tay eventually ropes us into playing Snap. Kingsley could easily demolish him, but pretends to be too slow every time so Tay can win, and it's nice to see Tay let his guard down for once. Hopefully it bodes good things for the rest of the Selected.

The timer dings, and we extract the pie from the oven with mitts. Steam plumes into the air, filling my nostrils with a heavenly scent – and you know, I thought I knew heavenly when I smelt Kingsley's cologne.

Tay bounces up and down. "This is my best pie yet!"

" _Our_ best pie," Kingsley corrects.

"Sorry. _Our_ best pie." Tay tugs on Kingsley's jacket. "Let's take it to Omma now! Please?"

He takes a step back and looks at me for confirmation. Well, this pie was for her, after all.

Stealing a cart from the storage room, we wheel the pie, along with several plates, knives and forks, and a jug of fresh cream, up to the office wing, where Omma, and hopefully Roy and Cami, will be.

I hear voices before long, coming from Roy's office, but without confirming their identities, Tay knocks on the door.

Omma opens, a cutting sternness shot through her shadowed eyes – but she immediately perks at Tay. "Oh! What's this?"

"I baked you a cherry pie! Will you taste it, Omma? Please?"

She glances at me and Kingsley, and Kingsley clasps his hands together. " _We_ baked you a cherry pie, Your Majesty. I can only hope you enjoy it half as much as I enjoyed helping to create it."

She laughs, turning back to Tay. "Then of course, scamp, I will taste the pie you _all_ baked together. In fact, I'm sure Mr Just would love a slice as well. We've told him all about your baking."

Eh? I peer into Roy's office. I see Roy, seated at his desk. Cami is by the bookshelves. Rudy is there, too, blank as always by Roy's side, but the main event is the man who turns to look at me from the armchair.

First thing I notice: Mr Just also looks like he could've been a model alongside Kingsley and Valerian. Like, tousled blond hair in gentle waves, sort of model. It's an effortless, enviable bedhead. Compared, his beard is so manicured it looks like silk upon his jaw, and his pale skin is flawless of imperfections. No scars, no hardships. When he stands he's level with Roy, and carries the same self-importance. Smooth hands usher us inside.

"Your Highnesses, and Mr Obasanjo too! It's great to meet you at last." His voice a strange mix of deep baritone and uppity bounce. "Especially yourself, Princess Gail. It's a huge honour to come into your employ."

Tay shies again, going behind Kingsley. "Who is he?"

"That isn't polite, Taeyang," Omma admonishes.

"It's all right." When he grins, it's like a bonfire in a starless night. "I'm James Jonathan Just, Your Highness, but that's a mouthful on a good day, so just JJ is fine. I'm here to teach history."

" _He_ is our teacher?" Kingsley mutters under his breath.

"Come on in," Roy encourages, and Rudy shuts the door behind us. "I was just welcoming JJ to the palace, and there's nothing more welcoming than a slice of Tay's cherry pie."

"Really?" JJ laughs. "I'd be honoured to try some."

Tay doesn't look so keen anymore, but doesn't object when Rudy carves the pie and divides it between us all. Tay was right in that Kingsley cut half of the cherries too small – some are a little chewier than others – but it's hardly noticeable, and everyone is soon commending Tay's skill.

I glance at Kingsley. He hasn't touched his plate yet.

"It's okay. You don't have to bow or curtsy or wait or anything. Tuck in."

"Ah. Yes." He breaks off a piece and slides it into his mouth. "It's… delicious."

"Absolutely!" JJ cheers. "You're quite the young prodigy, Prince Taeyang!"

Tay's cheeks go rosy red with pride. _So freakin' cute._ Luckily, Omma takes a quick snap when he's not looking.

"You were the first date then, eh, Sir Kingsley?" Roy says. "Fitting, since you were the first Selected for Gail to meet." He explains to JJ and Omma how Kingsley was waiting outside the Men's Parlour.

"I was just keen to meet Her Highness," Kingsley says. "Our date today confirmed that she is sweet as this cherry pie."

"Good. I'm glad. I assume you enjoyed the date too, Gail?"

"Definitely!" I pipe. "Kingsley is lovely."

"You may be safe from elimination yet, then, Sir Kingsley," says Cami with a teasing smile.

"I should hope so, too." Kingsley winks at me. Oh, my poor knees.

"How is your history, Mr Obasanjo?" JJ says.

Kingsley takes a moment to smile. "My knowledge of our history is to an outstanding degree, sir."

"Then I look forward to seeing your _outstanding_ recollection in class tomorrow."

"Actually, Mr Just— JJ." Omma puts her empty plate on the cart. "I'd like to delay the first lesson a few days. There is something I would like Gail to do beforehand."

My ears pique. I know of no such thing. JJ looks between us before shrugging.

"Of course, if that's what you want. It'll give me the chance to take my son to Los Angeles. He's always wanted to see the Hollywood sign!"

Omma dismisses Kingsley, Tay, and JJ shortly afterwards, leaving me alone with Roy, Cami, Rudy and herself. Kingsley holds my hand and brushes his lips against it in sheer tease as he leaves, and not only am I left bright red, but also bummed our date ended so abruptly.

But it's obviously something serious, judging by the shadows that strike Omma's face like hewn stone.

"I'm sorry to cut into your time," she says. "I wouldn't if I didn't think the matter needed addressing."

"What's wrong?" I ask.

"Nothing… extreme. However, there have been some recent reports of the Resurgence making an appearance at the capital of Midston, Midston City. To protest."

"Okay…" I absorb the information. "What does this have to do with me?"

"The local university, University of Midston, is hosting a political debate on classism. It's being attended by the entire council of Midston and even some leading politicians, so it's not short of any clout. This is the perfect opportunity to make your first public appearance as a proactive, socially conscious royal."

This is it. My first… _thing._ Real thing, not including the cemetery visit.

"Will… will I have to speak?"

"No," Roy says, "but there will, of course, be refreshments afterwards, and I can't imagine there won't be a huge number of people who will be fishing for your thoughts on the matter."

Which means I will definitely have to listen. Inside, I'm already wincing. Debates can be really freakin' boring if they're not about exciting subject matters, and class issues… are important, but not exactly riveting.

"Midston was your province," I say to Omma. "Why don't you go?"

"I was invited," she says, "but I'd like to take some time off since my last travels. Spend time with Tay."

"You can take up to three of your Selected with you," Roy adds. "Preferably a trio who are well-acquainted with Illéan politics already."

I have no idea who, but it sounds like the decision is already made. "When do I go?"

"Early tomorrow morning."

 _Tomorrow?_ That's hardly any time to prepare!

"And who will I take?"

"That's up to you."

I rub my temple.

"Fine, okay. I'll go." I know I don't have a choice anyway, but saying it at least gives me the illusion of control.

Roy scoffs, breaking it apart. "You say that like this wasn't part of the conditions of your Selection."

I shoot him a glare. "I don't know who's great with politics and debates, though. We haven't had a history lesson together yet."

Rudy cants his head. "May I suggest Nicholas Jacobs? He is from Midston."

 _And_ he studies law. This would be right up his street.

"All right. Nicholas is my first choice." Who else seemed intelligent? "Ansel Hewlett," comes the thought, before I can even visualise his face. The quantum physics student who was all _logic_ and _efficiency_ during his questions. "I think he'd like that sort of thing, too."

"Yes, I agree. He'd find a debate stimulating," says Rudy. "Your third choice?"

Roy scribbles this down as I think. Having three Selected who are _only_ into debates would probably bore me to tears. The third has to be someone who is intelligent without it going to their head. I scrounge through thirty conversations.

Sheng? Definitely not. I'd catch him sleeping.

Someone more chill? Avian Homes, the New Zealand DJ, pops up next, but he would be _too_ casual and not serious enough. He'd be right next to Sheng, sleeping – or worse, snoring.

Others like Parker and Levi are too jittery. Soren wouldn't make great conversation.

Then my thoughts pivot to Jeremiah Hill, the mixed boy with the gorgeous green eyes, whom I sat next to with Tay at lunch yesterday. At the meal, and even at our questions, nothing about him struck me as particular one way or the other. He seems smart, talkative, attentive… _rounded,_ and maybe that's what we need, so our party doesn't look like boring sticks in the mud.

"Jeremiah Hill," I say, the decision filling me with confidence already.

"Oh!" Cami claps her hand. "I do like him. He's an architect intern, did you know? I think he's eager to prove himself."

He was _definitely_ scared of Roy, too. Maybe talking to politicians who aren't so high on the ladder will ease him better into the Selection.

"Then this will be his first test," I say.

"Good. Then it's decided." Omma makes for the door. "I will contact the director to let him know. Transport will be organised shortly. You should inform Nicholas, Ansel and Jeremiah now so they have time to prepare as well."

And already, she's out the door. No one's outside, so I can only guess that Kingsley and JJ somehow managed to coax Tay back to his quarters.

Roy sighs. "Still working hard," he mutters. "Well, enjoy the debate tomorrow. Take some notes. It might make it easier to listen."

I doubt that.

Suddenly welling with dread, I make my way to the Selected wing.

* * *

When Zelda hears about my first act as Politically Engaged Gail, she roars with laughter.

Who is surprised? Not me.

I flop onto my couch. "You could at least be supportive."

"Oh, I am." Legs swung over the rest of my armchair, she wipes a fake tear. "Somewhere. Deep, deep down. Waaaay deep down."

"Your Highness?" Aderyn calls from my bedroom across the hall. With the door to my parlour propped open, she's hard to miss. "Would you prefer to wear the champagne tulle or the red velvet?"

"Champagne!" I say back. The red velvet dress is more, er, evening date with a hot Selected, not intellectual debate with sweaty councillors.

"I just can't imagine you listening to a debate," Zelda continues. "How did the boys take it?"

"Well, Ansel was delighted at the invite… and by delighted, I mean his lips curled up one degree."

"That's probably his version of excitement."

"Nicholas was just happy to go home for a little while. He asked if we could meet with his family, but I had to say no. They're further south."

"Right. And Jeremiah?"

"Jeremiah was…" I wince, recalling his mute acceptance, "surprised."

"I mean, no kidding." Zelda rights herself and leans her head in her hand. "Judging from his questions, he's not exactly overflowing with super nerdiness. No offence to him. He's probably intimidated down to his socks right now."

"Well, that's why I chose him. If he, or any of them, can't focus on the politics of the country, they're not fit to be with me. And you never know, maybe he'll outsmart everyone."

She grins. "He'll definitely outsmart you."

I throw a pillow. She makes a noise of offence when it smacks her in the face.

"Guess I won't tell you the hockey news."

I spring up. "What news?"

Instead, Zelda snags the remote from the sofa, and clicks on the TV, surfing through a few channels until we land on the dedicated ice hockey channel. A bar slides across the bottom with recent news, and I peer more closely.

 _Bellona Strike makes sudden return to Los Angeles—_

"She's here! She's back!"

"Ugh, Gail! Read the rest!"

— _to become the new manager of the women's Angeles All-Stars._

My heart sinks. What? But… why?

"But the Angeles All-Stars…"

"Suck? Blow? Beat?"

"Do all your words have to be sexual?"

She grins. "You said it, not me." She flings the remote back. "I mean, I'm hype that she's coming back, and that I'll be breathing the same air as her, but… the Angeles All-Stars are notoriously terrible. They haven't won a decent league game since three decades ago."

Bellona Strike was definitely a fluke on their behalf. How she didn't suddenly drop in IQ when she was on the team is beyond me.

"Why _is_ she coming back?"

"In an interview she said she was the last involved in a secret project, to be revealed imminently. Something about hoping to reinvigorate the team." Zelda scoffs. "Gonna' need more than _invigoration_ to bump up the All-Stars." She claps her hands together, falls back on her seat. "Maybe now I can fulfil my long-held fantasy of bumping into her when I'm in Los Angeles one day."

And, you know, if I could, I wouldn't hesitate to invite her to the palace for a visit. But this isn't the first time she's been back in the area, and I have definitely sent invites before. All declined.

There must be a good reason for it. She _is_ a busy woman, between commentating, mentoring, and her own pursuits as a famous retired player. Maybe she just doesn't have time to meet me.

Like she's had time to visit children's hospitals, retirement homes, schools and hockey clubs.

Bellona Strike is notoriously private, and even more finicky with her time, but when she won't even meet with the royal family, with summons? It hollows me to my core. Just shaking her hand would make Zelda's life, let alone mine.

"Your Highness!" Aderyn pops her head around the door. "Which shoes would you like to bring?"

"Oh." I hit _eject_ on my thoughts. "I'll choose myself."

"I should probably go." Zelda clicks the TV off. "Rudy and Jo will be wondering where I am."

I give her one last, pleading look. "Don't suppose you want to come to the debate with me tomorrow?"

But Zelda just cackles.

"Girl, not on your life."

* * *

 **A/N:** Hi everyone! So, what did you think of Kingsley and Gail (and Tay)'s date? Of JJ? Of Gail's first political act to attend a debate? Of her chosen three?

I have noooo idea what else to say so... does anyone else get super obsessed with one particular food, eat a frigton of it, and then never want to touch it again?

Many thanks for reading and reviewing, lovely peeps.

~ GWA

NTT: "Is today Pick on Gail Day?"


	9. Debatable

Flights are the worst.

I'm not scared of heights, death, or planes, but there's something uncomfortable being thrust thousands of feet into the air in a rattily tin can. Despite the numerous times I have travelled by air before, I can never talk during take-off or landing, and I always have to grip the seat.

Our private jet courses over the clouds as the sun hums over horizon. The first, eager sunrays pelt me through the window, so I shutter the light, recline my chair and try to occupy my thoughts with something other than either flying or this debate tonight.

The Selected, at least, seem to be enjoying themselves.

Nick, Ansel and Jeremiah had to stop to admire the jet's interior before take-off. It's a sleek short-flight build, so not our most impressive jet, but not even Ansel was able to hide his awe of the fitted sofas, the sleek geometric patterns, the polished walls and pristine white carpet. A sofa winds a U-shape in the centre, strewn with art deco pillows, with a dark coffee table in between. Besides us was the minibar for snacks and drinks, and the attendant gave us a smile almost as polished as the counter's marble.

"May I serve you any breakfast items this morning?"

"There's a _minibar?"_ Jeremiah said under his breath. "Is this the afterlife?"

"Nope," I said. "Just my life."

Now that we've taken off, and seatbelts can come off (and Nick and Jeremiah pored over every option on the menu), I ease my breathing and peer behind me. The three of them are inspecting every element of the aircraft – right down to Nick smoothing his hand over the coffee table.

"It's flawless."

Jeremiah stares out a window. "Oh, if my sisters could see this."

"Your Highness?" Nick calls, noticing me watching. "Join us?"

"Okay." I stand – more like wobble – and stride – more like waddle – over and take a seat with Nick.

"This jet is amazing," he says. "You fly like this all the time?"

"On short-haul flights, yes. Our long-haul plane is bigger and has bedrooms." I gesture between them all. "Have you met one another?"

Jeremiah joins us in the lounge area. "We've met." He nods to Nick. "Yesterday, in the Men's Parlour." He glances at Ansel and goes quiet.

Ansel takes a seat opposite me, hands clasp, knees together like he's found his perch and seems content not to move for the rest of the flight. "I'm afraid I have yet to be acquainted with either of these gentlemen."

"We can't have that." I clap my hands. "Ansel Hewlett, this is Nicholas Jacobs and Jeremiah Hill. Nick, Jeremiah, meet Ansel."

Since Jeremiah is standing within reach, he goes for a handshake. Ansel raises an eyebrow, hesitates – for a second I think he'll decline, think he'll just make it super awkward, but he takes the hand for a brief moment and shakes. Jeremiah takes it as a sign to sit next to him.

Nick just makes a wave of his hand. Thank goodness. I can't take that again.

"Excited for the debate?"

I try to form my best _yay, so excited!_ smile but it looks more like a scowl. "Oh, yes."

Jeremiah just laughs. "I have to admit, I was surprised you thought of me when you thought of a debate."

"Well, I thought it'd be nice to bring you along." I mock-whisper, "So it doesn't get too boring with these nerds."

"I enjoy a good debate," says Nick. "Nothing wrong with that."

Jeremiah coughs, but it sounds suspiciously like _nerds_ again. Heh.

Ansel waves his hand. "Call us what you must. Debates provide a healthy perspective on topics utilising logic, evidence and context, and that's only if you were to watch, not participate. This particular topic will be important for us."

I can't help but wonder what all of their previous castes were. Maybe I should have chosen a mixture of Selected who come from the upper, middle and lower classes. Even though all three of them have now been thrust into the spotlight of my Selection, what were they before? Who were they?

Conversation peters, and we fall into contented silence. Travel takes a lot out of me, but I'm used to it, so for the boys it must be even more fraying.

"Your Highness," Ansel interrupts, nodding his head towards the front. "May I use the chess set?"

I peer around dozing Nick to see – yep, a chess set, black and white to match the decoration, each marble piece so polished I could use it as a mirror. It's more for show than to actually use, but I shrug, and Ansel retrieves it.

As he inspects the make, Jeremiah quips, "I've never played chess."

Ansel freezes. It's the closest I've seen him to bewilderment. "Do you… know the rules?"

"The pawn… moves one space."

"One space _forward,_ except on its first move, in which it may move two." His brow tightens. "You… really have never played?"

"Too busy at my architecture firm," he says, with a light smile. "And learning the harmonica."

I wisely decide not to comment on his instrument choice. "I know how to play."

Ansel gestures to the board. "Then perhaps you would like to play a game?"

"Oh, nooooo. You'll crush me."

His lips curl upwards, so apparently that's the point.

"Why don't you teach Jeremiah how to play? Then I can versus him."

Ansel's face twitches, but it melts quickly into that vacant façade, and he clears his throat. "I'm sure Jeremiah would find that too _nerdy_."

"Hey, I called you a nerd," says Jeremiah, "not that it was _bad_ to be a nerd."

Another pause, and then Ansel's voice is clipped.

"Very well. The basic rules are as follows."

So I watch, intermittently giving input as Ansel tells Jeremiah about how the bishop can only move diagonally, or the king one space at a time. To his credit, Jeremiah listen patiently, and somehow manages to inhale the information dump like it were a gourmet meal.

"Now you may move your knight—"

"The horse?"

"The _knight,"_ Ansel insists as I giggle, "to any square in an L-shape direction. You see?"

He demonstrates, plonking the horse— er, knight, three squares behind and one to the right.

"Huh. I think I understand now."

Ansel lets out a dark laugh. "Oh, this only scratches the surface. You don't know half the manoeuvres."

"And you won't be able to learn them all on this flight," I say. "Let's have a match!"

Ansel moves the board so Jeremiah and I are opposite. I'm actually terrible at chess, so given that Jeremiah is a noob, hopefully we're evenly matched. We start, and when I move a piece, Ansel twitches in my peripheral vision.

"Is there a problem with my move, Ansel?"

"No," he says through grinded teeth.

However, when Jeremiah makes a misplay, he advises another move before he lets go of the piece. "You must think ahead about what your opponent is doing. Try to predict what Her Highness will do."

"All right there, Spock," Jeremiah says.

Ansel doesn't smile, but it's in his eyes. He _so_ takes that as a compliment.

Nick makes a grunting noise halfway through, rousing from slumber. "Chess?"

"Yep! Want to help me?"

He comes closer and examines the board. "You've made some… unique plays."

"That's what I've been saying," says Ansel.

"More like glaring," I mutter, and Jeremiah snickers.

The _Gail vs. Jeremiah and Ansel_ game becomes _Gail and Nick vs. Jeremiah and Ansel_ … and then eventually _Nick vs. Ansel,_ when both Jeremiah and I start to tire of both Nick and Ansel's intense criticism of our move choices.

Eventually, a call comes through the speakers. "We're landing soon. Please make your way back to your seats."

"Oh thank goodness," I tease, as we clear away the board and strap ourselves in for landing.

"I would have won anyway," says Ansel. "There were more black pieces on the board."

"You were playing from the start," Nick counters, "whereas I only started halfway through."

"I got us halfway there," I say.

He makes a half-wince, half-smile, and I pout, which Jeremiah laughs at again. Is today Pick on Gail day?

The thoughts soon eject from my head as the plane nosedives to land. I clench the armrests, squeeze my eyes shut, keep thinking happy thoughts, and soon the tarmac greets us. Stale, dry air slaps my cheeks with a wind that blows like nails on skin. We are quickly taxied in a limo from the airport to the manor house I've rented for the day, as the arid landscape goes from brown to rich green.

I am instantly filled with regret that we are unable to stay longer than the day. The manor's sleek Mediterranean design boasts a front portico strengthened by a row of colonnades, beige archways, stucco exterior walls and low red rooves. With the sunlight, it's like we've stepped into Spain, rather than Midston City.

Of course, a swathe of security are already stationed outside, around the perimeter, even at the entrance to the driveway. Naomi hasn't left my side the entire flight, hovering at the back of the aircraft whilst the Selected and I occupied the front, and even now she adjusts her shades so she can keep a better eye on me. Aderyn travelled with her to help me prepare for the evening, and they exchange pleasantries, my lady's maid occasionally smiling my way.

Entering into the wide receiving area, with a huge staircase the centrepiece that splits to meet both sides of the mezzanine, I clap my hands. "The debate is late in the evening, so we have a few hours to enjoy ourselves and freshen up."

"And a few hours I will use," Nick comments.

We quickly split to explore the manor. It's not as big as the palace, of course, but impressive enough to raise my eyebrows. The living rooms are plastered with fancy paintings in gilded frames, and rugs that span the entire length of the hallway are plush to the touch.

"Alert!" I hear Jeremiah yell. "There is a pool!"

The back garden indeed houses a huge pool, stretching in a T-shape. There's enough room for a water polo match.

I release a long _squee._ Okay, this was one hundred percent why I chose this place. I race to my new room to change into a bikini (pink, with frills) and come back outside. Jeremiah and Nick have already changed; only Ansel is standing awkwardly by the deck chairs, eyes resting on the other boys.

"No wonder my valet made me pack a bathing costume!" says Jeremiah, now naked save his Hawaiian print shorts. _Oh my,_ I think, staring at his glistening body and neat arms. He's not particularly muscled – no six pack like Sheng or anything – but _oh boy_ is it nice to look at. A tattoo is visible now, a paper aeroplane with a real plane shadow on his right arm.

Totally the sun that warms my cheeks.

He dive-bombs into the pool, sending a tidal wave onto the pavement.

"Hurry up, you two!"

Nick tests the water first with a toe. He is also out here with shorts, a gradient from blue to white, before he sits on the edge and slips inside.

"To get my body used to the temperature."

No abs in his department either, but that's fine. I don't exactly have a supermodel body. I take a running leap into the pool. By the way the water engulfs me, the splash was humongous.

"Hey!"

I surface. Ansel's trousers are soaked.

"Oops, sorry!"

Jeremiah laughs. "Come on, Ansel, the water's great!"

"I think I may rest for a while," he says, glancing around once more before returning inside.

I frown. "Did I do something wrong?"

"You were fine, Your Highness," says Nick. "I don't think swimming is his sort of thing."

"I've known him about the same amount of time you have," says Jeremiah, eyes trailing the porch as if Ansel's ghost lingers. "His face doesn't seem to move very much."

No, he's right that it doesn't. It was obvious before, but now it sticks out like an island peninsula.

"He was talkative before," I point out.

"Yeah, on a jet, where he couldn't exactly run very far."

It's funny that chess seemed to bring him out of his shell, if only for a moment.

"I saw him in the Men's Parlour after my questions," says Nick. "He was sitting by himself with a book. Only when the queen came over did he shut it."

Trust Cami to spot the lone ranger amongst the boys.

"Well," I say, dashing the thought, "maybe he'll loosen up once the debate starts."

At least, I hope he does.

The hours sprint by with us playing piggy-in-the-middle with a huge beach ball, and then a devouring a meal concocted by the gourmet chef. Soon, the sun begins to dip, and Aderyn hustles me to the bedroom to prepare. I'm made up, slipped into the champagne tulle dress, and ready to go.

The boys meet me in the lobby, dished up in fancy suits. Nick stands impossibly, _imposingly,_ straight, hands clasped behind his back, but relaxes when he sees me.

"You look very pretty, Your Highness."

"Aw, thank you, Nick. You clean up well yourself."

He makes a smile like he's been handed a baby and has no idea what to do with it. Bless.

Likewise, Ansel and Jeremiah scrub up well too. Ansel is in a dark navy suit, hands tucked in the trouser pockets, hair combed out of his face. There's a fountain pen sticking out his jacket pocket for, or for what I can only presume is, note-taking. Jeremiah, on the other hand, opted for a more casual style, with no jacket or tie and a light blue shirt untucked.

We tumble into the limo to head for the university grounds. It doesn't take more than twenty minutes, of which Jeremiah and I fill the silence with chatter. It dwindles when campus comes into view: huge, red brick buildings along a walkway that must take a solid ten minutes to traverse. At the very end is a library that kind of looks like Hogwarts, not gonna' lie.

The campus is dead of students, so it's easy to spot the aristocratic elite that line up outside the conference building, also primped in suits and ties and all manner of evening dresses. Looks aim our way as we skip the queue, our security and faces erupting whispers. I catch sight of a few people who stare, only to see they aren't making the face of _oh wow, it's Princess Gail!_ but more confusion, sometimes hostility.

There isn't much chance to dwell on it as the director of the conference meets us inside, shaking my hand so vigorously I think he'll take my arm off.

"Your Highness, it is a huge honour to have you here. Thank you for coming, and for your interest in our debate."

"My pleasure. I'm always interested in issues that affect our country."

When he finally releases us to our box seat overlooking the podiums, I massage my cheeks. Smiling for so long hurts so, so much.

Ansel settles in first, as close as he can be on the front row. He takes out his notepad, unclips his pen, and waits for the moderator to start. Nick ropes his jacket around the back and sits next to him.

"Well… back row for us?" Jeremiah gestures.

"Looks like it," I snort.

We sit.

"You said you were, er, interested in issues that affect our country." Jeremiah hesitates, but powers on. "So you must come to these sorts of things frequently, right?"

Smiling a long time may hurt, but not as much as restraining to wince does. "Oh, well… this is the first time I've left home for something like it, but I do take an interest in Illéa's social and political climate. I have to. It's practically my job."

"It's just…" He shrugs. "I don't know. Every time I saw you on television, it was for a reality show, or entertainment, or… something."

My chest constricts. At my pause, he gulps super loud.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to imply you can't do both."

"No, no. It's fine."

Am I really easy to see through? I might not have been the heir and less focus placed on me, but the fact remains that I had little to no clue about the Resurgence's influence. No wonder people were looking at me strangely when waiting outside. They must have been thinking, _why is she here? She doesn't belong._

The moderator comes on stage.

"Good evening, ladies, gentlemen, esteemed guests, and Her Royal Highness." He flicks a quick glance at us – at me – before continuing. "Tonight here, in the honoured establishment of the University of Midston, we have come to discuss a prevalent issue regarding classism."

I can barely register the names of the debate team, even though they're big names in social media, politicians, law students and leaders of socialist movements. Ansel begins scratching notes, but to me the words fly over my head.

"The abolishment of the caste system was a necessary measure to reunite the country and its divide." One person pronounces loudly to the humming crowd, plucking me from my wandering mind. "However, there still remains a chasm between the rich and the poor. Statistically we have more high- and low-class citizens than middle class, and it is wrecking us economically."

I glance at the three boys, but my focus ends up on Jeremiah, who has his head canted slightly but makes no other facial expression to give up how he's feeling.

"Erm, Jeremiah?" I whisper.

He faces me. "Yes, Your Highness?"

"Do you mind if I ask a… personal question?"

He goes still. "That may have to depend on the question."

"Your old caste." I speak it before I lose my nerve. "What was it?"

"Ah." He scratches his head. "My parents were Threes. My mother is a surgeon and my father is a doctor, so…"

An affluent family.

"The caste abolishment… did it affect your family?"

"To be honest, I don't think it affected them too much, besides having the label removed. They were still doctors of their professions, after all. But I was too young to understand if there were any small ramifications."

"Right, right. Thank you."

He smiles and returns to listening. The caste abolishment wasn't an immediate thing; it started with Eights, then Sevens, then Sixes, Fives, and so on. Eventually the labels were no more, and people were free to choose whichever profession they most desired.

But the Resurgence arises now because even that is flawed. Because even Roy's attempts to build a bridge over the divide has left the chasm unfilled.

So that mammoth task is left to me.

And I am wholly unprepared.

* * *

Refreshments begin as soon as the debate is over and the applause quietens. We are herded out to the lobby, where a clothed table houses platters of finger foods and small flutes of wine. I take a glass, but my appetite has all but left, even though my chest feels hollow.

Meanwhile, Ansel prattles on quietly to Nick about the debate. "It's obviously discriminatory to refuse employment to someone simply for their previous caste, but how can we police such behaviour when it can be regarded as 'personal reasons'?"

"Don't tell me we shouldn't at least try," Nick responds. "That's like citing 'personal reasons' to refuse employment to someone who is gay, or black…"

"And I agree, with you and Councillor Bayim's team in regards to the matter, but where do the boundaries lie? At what point is 'personal reasons' no longer a legitimate stance?"

Jeremiah bobs his head along. I can't tell if he actually agrees or if he has his own opinion locked in his head somewhere, but doesn't want to cause argument.

"Princess?"

I startle. Nick is facing me. "What do you think?"

"Oh, well… classism is bad." Which is the worst answer ever, so I try again. I did pick up _some_ of the debate. "I guess… I guess 'personal reasons' _isn't_ a legitimate stance anymore."

"But then one could argue that doing so is a removal of agency and rights," Ansel says, with an expression that seems to neither agree nor disagree, and a voice on monotonous level. "Especially for small, independent business owners—"

"Your Highness! Esteemed Selected!"

Councillor Bayim approaches us with wide arms.

"I'm thrilled you could come today. Did you find the debate stimulating?" He directs the question to me. Unfortunately.

"Oh. Yes. We were just discussing the 'personal reasons' portion, actually."

"Ah, a tricky one, that. Have either of us swayed you to a particular opinion?"

I sweat on the inside.

"I… am still on the fence."

Instead of being disappointed like I thought, he nods. "And that is good. It's always better to think things through."

"I am more in agreement with your point, Councillor Bayim," Ansel says. "In fact, I was hoping we could discuss a few of your points." He reproduces his notebook and pen. Bayim seems thrilled, and the two enter into intense discussion. Frankly, it's nice to see Ansel in his element – where he performs best.

It makes for a good prince, to be engaged.

You know, unlike me.

"Well, I'm going to get some food." Jeremiah jams a thumb at the buffet table. "Any requests?"

"I'm okay," I say, though maybe I should get more wine.

"No, thank you," says Nick, holding up a glass of water, and Jeremiah leaves.

We stand in silence as conversations pool around us.

"So… what did you really think?"

"Hmm?"

"The debate," he says. "It's sort of obvious that you were struggling to stay awake. I've sat through enough tax lectures to understand that glazed over expression when I see it."

I go red. Lucky we were in our own box. "I _did_ try…"

"I know." He smiles. "Just seems like debates aren't your thing."

And with resounding certainty, I agree, but it comes with a wave of disappointment. It's an intellectual pursuit, perfect for anyone politically engaged, right? Why can't I just enjoy it like Ansel? He looks like me when I'm watching a hockey game.

"Ah, Your Highness, and Sir Nicholas Jacobs."

A prominent council member for the Midston province, Finley Hopkins, slides over like there's grease on the floor, and extends a bony hand my way.

"It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I don't believe we've met."

Immediately my hair is on end. This guy gives me the major creeps. Alas, I'm sure it's just the unfortunate gauntness of his cheeks and slick hair that give off that impression. Definitely not the smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

I grasp his hand to shake. Hopkins has a hold stronger than he looks. After he shakes Nick's hand and introduces himself, his arms go behind his back and he hunches forwards.

"I did not think debates were your… style, ma'am," he continues.

It's an echo of what Nick said to me literally a minute ago. "It's never too late to try new things."

"And did you find it interesting, then?"

"Oh, yes." It comes out before I can even register how hard a fib that is. "It's always good to hear opinions and pieces from the people. It doesn't have quite the same emotional impact when you're reading statistics on paper."

His lips form a thin line. "Quite. And… you involve yourself with the political situation in this country often?"

I withhold a visible baulk, because I hear an accusatory tone laced within the question. "Yes."

"How intriguing," he murmurs, "that only now have you begun to take noticeable active interest. Quite phenomenal timing, is it not, with the unfortunate Resurgence on our doorstep, and your Selection underway?"

My tongue glues to the roof of my mouth. Oh god. I didn't think that me holding a Selection _and_ going to things like this had such obvious intentions. Politicians are always able to see behind the curtain.

I don't have an answer to give him, but Nick reminds me he's here by standing just a little closer to me. "I think that is an unfair statement, Councillor." It's that same pose: back straight, head tilted up ever so slightly that he looks down the bridge of his nose upon Hopkins. "Her Highness has only recently come of age."

"There are many young people involved in politics, young man."

"Perhaps, but there are many older folks who have not a wink of interest, certainly not to attend debates such as these." His words, though smooth as silk, only hide the spikes beneath. "Would you not agree that it is better to want to grasp our country's political situation now than later, regardless of timing?"

Hopkins pauses, strokes his chin.

"Yes, you are correct, of course. I would never insinuate that Her Highness is not welcome to engross herself in the political sphere." He turns his gaze to me. "You are, after all, our princess."

Still, I have no words.

Hopkins bobs his head. "Well, if you'll excuse me, I hope you enjoy the rest of the evening."

He glides away.

All the tension that has unwittingly knotted in my chest unravels and pools at the bottom of my chest.

Nick lets out a little breath. "That was… interesting."

"Do you mean _horrible?"_

"Heh. You're not wrong."

Once again, I'm speechless at the number of people who have clocked that my Selection isn't just for giggles.

But it's not only that.

It's that no one _believes_ I'm really here of my own accord. That I'm only doing this to pacify the rebels or improve my family's image.

 _Am I really so obvious?_

"Hey." Nick touches my arm – tentatively at first, but when I don't pull away, he holds and squeezes. "Don't let people like Hopkins get you down."

"I'm fine," I say.

He frowns. "Okay. He just… looked like he shook you, is all."

And he did. But I'm not Gail Su-Jin Schreave if I don't shrug off all the Hopkinses in my life.

"Thank you." I take him by the arm and squeeze too. "You really had my bacon."

"No problem." His smile is easier now, not like that fake one shone at Hopkins. It's… sweet.

"Hey, who was that guy?" Jeremiah pops up behind me with a plate of food.

"A Midston councillor," I say.

And if he's the worst one I'll meet tonight, maybe I'll be just fine.

* * *

The jet touches down on Los Angeles soil at nearly eight, and I'm so socially exhausted that I barely say more than an appreciative _thank you and goodnight_ to the Selected as we head back to our rooms.

Talking, smiling, talking, smiling. An endless monotony. No wonder Omma sent me in her stead.

Aderyn parts ways with me once I dismiss her, but my room is sadly occupied once I crack the door open.

"Gail!" Zelda leaps up. "Quick, shut the door!"

I pass a wary glance at Naomi, who shrugs and returns to her post, before doing as asked.

"Zelda, I'm tired. Can this wait?"

"No it freaking cannot."

She shoves her phone into my hand. On screen is the website for the Angeles All-Stars.

 _HOCKEY TRY-OUTS_ it screams in big, bold letters. _Don't miss a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to become part of something bigger, better. The Angeles All-Stars are holding open try-outs for any ice hockey enthusiasts wishing to join a casual community of players and have fun._

 _Meet the legendary Bellona Strike, new manager for the All-Stars team, who will be holding the try-outs and watching YOU play!_

I nearly drop the phone. Suddenly, I'm wide awake.

"She— she's holding try-outs?"

"Hell yeah she is! This was her secret project, all along!" She scrolls. "And look here. Bellona Strike herself is hosting the try-outs! We'll get to meet her! _Tonight!"_

I freeze. " _We?"_

Zelda drops her arms. "Gail, come on. We can't miss this opportunity to meet our _freakin'_ idol! We'll be in the same room as her! We'll be breathing the same air!"

I can picture it now. Me, gliding up to her with the gracefulness of a swan. Her, flustered at my exalted presence. _Your Highness, what a pleasure it is to meet you. I heard you're a big fan._ Then she, Zelda and I become besties forever and we get invited to every game in the league.

But as quickly as the fantasy comes, it dashes.

"Roy will never let me go, and I'm tired. Maybe I can convince him tomorrow?"

"It's one night only."

What sort of slap-dash try-outs are these?

"Then I will need to have a guard contingent and emergency escape plans—"

" _Or,"_ Zelda says, "we can just go in a disguise."

This idea is getting worse and worse, and I rub my temple. How did I miss this? I was probably too busy in Midston to pay attention to Bellona's announcement.

"There's no way Roy will give me permission—"

"Yeah, like he gave you permission for your Selection?" Her eyebrows wiggle. "He doesn't need to know."

Her tone is uppity, an implication—

Oh. _Oh no._

"Definitely not," I say. "I am _not_ sneaking out."

"Gail, _please."_ She clasps my arm. "It says it right here. _Once-in-a-lifetime._ We can't miss this."

"You can go by yourself."

"No I can't! You know how uncool I'll look in front of Bellona if I go up to her alone for her autograph?"

I poke her. "You _are_ uncool."

"Yeah, yeah." She shakes me off. "I mean it. You've snuck out before."

I go a little red. "Yeah, to the stables to go on secret dates with Chocolate Ninja. Not out of the grounds! Not in disguise!"

"Besides," she cuts across, "I have to sneak out too. No way in hell is Rudy gonna' let me saunter to LA at this time of night." She grips her phone. "The try-outs end at ten. We have time if we go now!"

She's wearing me down. I can feel part of me twisting, already eager to rifle through my drawers for sports tape. Despite her public image, Bellona is a private person – as evidenced by her refusal to accept palace invitations – so maybe this is the only way to meet her.

"We go, get an autograph, and leave. That's all."

"Yes. Yep. One hundred percent." Zelda claps her hand together. "Is that a yes?"

I can't believe I'm doing this.

"Only if we're not spotted." Impulse wins out, and the drawers shrill when I open them. Underneath my bras and underwear is the sports tape I keep hidden for nightly excursions. "Where will we meet?"

"Unloading bay in the servant's wing in the next thirty minutes. I can grab you some stuff for disguises."

It's like she prepared beforehand. "How exactly do _you_ plan to escape?"

"We're on the ground floor, Gail," she reminds me. "Rudy will still be with the king, June will be asleep, and Joseph snores so loudly you could steal the bed beneath him and he wouldn't wake."

"And the guards? Security cameras?"

She merely laughs under her breath. "You make this sound like it's my first rodeo."

Without another word, she winks, opens the door, and strolls out.

After I mumble something to Naomi, leaning against my parlour door, about not being disturbed for the night, I return to my plan. The servant's wing is on the other side of the palace, and there's no leaving my room without her spotting.

So it looks like my normal route will have to do.

I have to take time to prepare. I stretch, warm up my muscles, and wrap the sports tape over my hands. Cami gave me these skills "for emergencies only"… but since Bellona will likely never make an appearance again where I can meet her, I would _totally_ count this as an emergency.

After I change into sturdy boots and a tracksuit, I pack a small backpack of sports tape, a flashlight, water, a small poster of Bellona for her to sign, and another change of clothes. Not too flashy, but warm enough to last in an ice rink. And also look super cute.

Cracking open the balcony door, I peer out. It's a warm night, and the sun has just about set, giving me the perfect cover.

 _Maybe this is extreme,_ I think. _Is it even worth it? To sneak out?_

As I take one last look at my room, seeing all the hockey posters on my walls and the signed pucks on my stand and the team photos on my bedside table…

Yes. Definitely worth it.

It's time to climb down the palace walls.

* * *

 **A/N:** Cami's skills are being put to good use! … Or perhaps not... ;) What did you think of Ansel, Nick and Jeremiah? I hope you enjoyed the chapter!

Happy Easter to everyone who celebrates, and happy nondescript weekend to those who don't! I've struggled writing tratr these past two weeks BUT consolation: I figured out some eeeeevil plot twists so now I have some direction and more drama to write... huehuehue…

Thanks for reading and reviewing, lovelies!

~ GWA

NTT: "You saying I'm not cute?"


	10. Hit the Rink

My dates with Sheng have prepared me for this moment.

The first time I scaled the wall down to the second floor, I nearly wet myself with nerves. There's a risk free-climbing that you obviously don't get when you're at a dedicated facility: no harness, no one around, and unfavourable climbing conditions. There's a chance I will slip, bash, maybe even kill myself if I hit the ground right.

But having done it more than once, it's become nothing more than routine procedure. I know where my hands and feet go, I know which ledge is best for reach and purchase, I know how much I can exert myself or when I need to break. It's easy enough now that I worry far less here and far more when I touch down.

But I try not to let it go to my head, because three stories is still three stories I do _not_ want to fall.

I sit on the balcony rail and grab of a jutting ledge. Then I reach, my foot touching cool, palace stone, and shimmy along the outer wall with the wind caressing my hooded face. Close enough to a pipe, I use the wall straps to climb down – it's harder than it looks since the straps are so thin and sparsely placed, but with my sneakers providing grip I make it to the balcony on the second floor.

My ears pop, and I still. Only the wind from the trees reaches me. Warily, I peer through the glass for signs of life. No guards. Good. I produce the key from my backpack and slowly unlock the door, making sure to relock it tightly when I'm inside.

From here, I'll take the secret passages. The first door to my right opens into a receiving chamber, and at the very back, next to the fireplace, is a secret door.

After the rebel assault, Roy had most of them closed. The rebels used it to get inside our home as much as we did to get out. Only few survived the cull, including this one, which only leads to the garages outside. The doors are alarmed, but one time I bribed one of the security guards to tell me the codes every week.

I know. I'm basically Mission Impossible.

It took me weeks to figure out this route was optimal, since no guards, no cameras, and definitely no interference from Roy. Let's just say Sheng was more intimidated to be dating me afterwards.

My thoughts drift to him as I traverse the passage with my flashlight. I haven't spoken to him since the elimination. What does he think about surviving the first cut? That expression sticks in my head like a stubborn piece of gum – that one where his eyebrows leapt and his mouth parted and there were words he wanted to say, but couldn't. I can't avoid him forever again like last time. Eventually, he will seek me.

But for now, I suppose, he's enjoying the small victory.

Who knows how long I'll have to keep him. Maybe until the Elite. Maybe until the top three.

 _Maybe he'll win,_ says a little voice in my head.

My heart blunders, and I stumble down the last few steps. Righting myself, I pause to see if the noise crossed through to the garage through the crack in the wall.

But it's empty.

I scuttle across the concrete floor to the outside, once again greeted by a thin wind. A thick wall of tree looms ahead, even more ominous in darkness, but I dip inside, using it as cover to make my way into the gardens.

Getting across the palace wall? Easy.

Getting to the servant's wing? Not so much.

I have to go around the entire palace. Across the front takes me along the courtyard, which is obviously guarded. The back, through the gardens, is spotted with patrols and the occasional camera – enough to fear being spotted. I scuttle along, zipping from bush to bush like a lizard stealing the night.

With additional security since the rebel attack, getting out of here is like getting out of Fort Knox. But I _live_ here. When I look out my window, the garden is the first thing I see. It's like a map is imprinted into my head, and I correct my course, following down one path when another is shorter to avoid the boot steps and clack of guns.

I hit the maze by the northwest doors, and by the time I realise I'm holding my breath, I'm at the servant's wing entrance. Outside, staff unload crates upon crates of produce from huge trucks in a wide loading bay. That's probably my dinner for tomorrow, right there. A driver is scanning barcodes on each crate with a handheld terminal.

No Zelda though.

Someone with a clipboard is tapping her foot furiously. "You there!" She points to a petite maid with long, blonde hair. "Stop gaggling and take a crate!"

"Yessiree, ma'am!"

Never mind. _That_ is Zelda.

Zelda hauls the crate inside, but without a disguise, I can't go any closer. Clipboard Lady drums her thigh with the pen, ordering more staff to continue the line going. At one point, she darts inside.

Zelda comes out, sprints to the bushes, and ducks. I meet her there, trying not to startle her as she peers out around the leaves.

"You're so slow," she whispers as I make it to her side. "Honestly. I've been here ten minutes already."

"I had to _climb_ _down_ the palace walls."

"Then you're a slow climber." She riffles in her own backpack and shoves a black pixie cut wig in my face. It's identical to her own, her _real_ haircut. "Here. Put this on."

"But… I won't look cute in this!"

"You saying I'm not cute?"

" _I'm_ saying I don't suit this haircut."

"Well, it's the only one that made sense. You have long, brown hair, so a complete change is short, black hair. Meanwhile, _I_ have short, black hair, so I went with long and blonde." She pulls out a pair of spectacles. "And these."

"Great, so now I'm going to meet my idol looking like Harry Potter."

"It's _your_ face that's more recognisable." Zelda's eyes roll. "I have contacts in my bag, too. And make-up."

Even in the darkness I see Zelda has laid it on heavy – almost for costume, to change the shadow of her cheeks, the line of her jaw. Her freckles aren't visible anymore.

Without warning, she takes off behind the trucks, and I run behind. "Where did you even get all this stuff?"

"Cosplay!" she says through pants. "Be thankful I didn't grab my waist-length electric blue wig!"

Rather Harry Potter than an anime character, I suppose, and I eat my complaints like I'd eat mouldy bread.

The outdoor entrance to the staff car park opens without fanfare. Near the indoor entrance is Zelda's car; an old, trampled thing. It used to be Rudy's car, and brand new when he got it nine years ago. So he claims. The bucket of bolts is barely able to ferry Zelda places without complaining about something.

We haul inside and Zelda chucks the stick into gear before screeching away and out the exit.

"How much time do we have?"

"An hour?"

Zelda tuts. "Traffic will be thick. Better step on it."

I take the time I spruce my face. The base layer is already there from the debate, so it's only a matter of changing the round slope of my cheeks to sharp edges, and enhancing the shadows under my eyes. With the glasses and green contacts (which is absolutely heck to put on during a bumpy car ride), I don't see myself in the compact mirror anymore.

"See? You're not even Princess Gail."

"You're right," I say. "Now I am… a _discount Harry Potter!"_

" _No you're freakin' not!"_

Along the highway our topic changes to what we'll do when we meet Bellona Strike in person. First, it is obviously polite to shake hands. Maybe curtsy? Or is that too much? When we present my poster and Zelda's puck, we will kindly ask her to sign it. Zelda even brought a sparkly gold Sharpie, just in case by some twist of fate, Bellona's runs out right as we reach the front of the signing line. Then we gush about how much we love her, how much she inspires us to follow our dreams, and how much we wish to be like her.

The rink isn't the usual one, where all league games are held. This one is smaller, cosier, crammed into a side neighbourhood that you wouldn't see unless you were looking. _Glendale Ice Rink,_ says the front post. The front car park nearly full, but there seems to be more people leaving than coming in.

"Crap." Zelda swings the car into a space. "Do you think they're closing the event soon?"

I shrug. "Do you think the signing line will be big?"

"With the amount of people leaving? I think we've missed the bigger wait times."

After we change into better gear, we make our way to the entrance. September air chills down to my bones. The building spans hundreds of yards, but looks more like a dilapidated prison block than an ice rink. There is a huge sign on top with a blocky font, denoting the name again, but it seems the paint has been stripped away.

I guess this is what happens when your team is terrible. Bad facilities.

Inside, we hit an escalator before entering a lobby with linoleum floors. It's nicely furnished despite outside, with a round information desk to the left, and huge glass doors directly ahead, that lead to the middle of the ice rink seats. To our left and right are longer corridors, presumably to find seats elsewhere. Just looking through the doors, the stadium's capacity can't be very big – there's only four rows of seats at the top level.

But oh… the rink beyond.

It's beautiful, glittering. Figures zoom across the ice like shooting stars. A net marks the end. Cones dot across an invisible boundary. There's quite a few spectators, but not many – but I suspect there were more earlier today.

There is a very short line of people at the desk. The man there speaks in hushed whispers to hopefuls carrying hockey sticks and skates before directing them down the hall.

"Hi," Zelda says, when we're at the front. "We're here—"

"Just down that corridor there are the try-outs, ladies." He chops his hand down in the same direction as the people before us.

"Oh, no," I say. "We're just here to meet Bellona."

"Pardon?"

"We don't want to try out for the team," Zelda clarifies. "We were hoping there was a signing line, or…?"

He shakes his head. "Miss Strike isn't meeting signing today. You may get a signed item if you're trying out, however."

 _Only if we try-out?_

"That's—"

"Thanks for the information!" Zelda drags me to the wall, by a philodendron, then talks in hushed whispers. "Gail, oh god—"

"No! We can't join the try-outs! That is expressly the thing I _didn't_ want to do!"

"It's the only way we'll get to meet her!"

It's the first time I hear it. That pure desperation. Pure _awe,_ that we're so close, so close it's worth anything. Her cheeks suck in, holding breath, anticipating. Her fists clench by her side.

It's my call. I love Bellona Strike too, but I'm also the one who has the most to lose, being here.

" _Please,"_ she says – _begs._ "I know we said we wouldn't try out, but… she's _here._ We could _meet_ her! We just need to play a game of hockey first!"

Just one game. One.

Obviously, we know how to play hockey. After all, Cami had a half-rink installed just so I could play it for fun. I can skate asleep. Zelda can, too.

But playing it for fun is different from playing it for real.

Playing it to impress.

Bellona Strike will see us play. If I play badly, how can I ever stomach my shame enough to ask her to sign my poster?

But this opportunity will never come again. I might embarrass myself, might fall on my butt, maybe make Bellona laugh at my awful attempts to hit the puck, but at least she will be there, and I can hold onto the knowledge that she watched me play. Even for a fraction of her lifetime.

"Okay." I take a deep breath. My heart rate has suddenly rocketed. "Okay. Let's go."

I've never seen Zelda grin so hard. It makes me feel a warm fuzziness inside, like I've accomplished something special to see my best friend smile like that. She grabs my arm and we run down the hallway, but come to a grinding halt as soon as the corner curves.

The other hopefuls. Right.

The girl in front of us wrings her hockey stick so hard it might break, and it only doubles the nerves that electrify my bones. Zelda peels to a stop and grabs my shoulders.

"Okay, let's be chill about this. You and I have played a hundred times."

So fast we were to jump into this that I didn't even consider _how_ the try-outs would play. Do we join a team and play a game? Do we do drills? Penalties?

"How… how will this work?"

"No idea. Website just says try-outs."

"I believe it's a four-a-side team, where we alternate between offence and defence."

The girl ahead turns to face us. She's so tall – like, Aderyn-level tall. Her faint muscle is betrayed by the flowing blue tank top. Her dark brown skin glows, her huge head of curly hair breaches gravity, but it's her giant, retro glasses that I pin on, since they look a lot like the fake ones I'm wearing now.

"Oh, really?" Zelda says. "Not a full team?"

"No," says the girl, clutching the hockey stick to her chest. "That would take too long, and Miss Strike doesn't have all night. There are so many people here. So many! And so many watching…"

She shudders. I'm starting to think this poor girl is about as prepared as we are.

"Hey, it'll be fine," Zelda says. "You, er, play often?"

"When I can!" she pipes. Her gentle smile is dazzling (how are her teeth so white?) "It's hard. Not the type of sport you can just practice in your house."

Zelda gives me a side-long look. I give her one that says, _you didn't say anything, but shut up._

She looks skywards. "I really hope Miss Strike and the rest of the All-Star management likes me! It would be so much fun to play for a real team."

We reach another lobby, identical to the last one, but here there are three clothed tables jammed together, and three people writing in clipboards. At the desk, the lady nods.

"You're lucky. You're the last ones through tonight."

I gulp. The last ones means… we leave the last impression.

"Name?" she asks me.

"Su—" Oh no! I draw out the syllable. My first instinct was to go for my middle name, but of course, that's as public knowledge as my first name.

"Suuuuuu…?"

"Suuuuuu… san… etta…" I nod. "Yes. Susanetta."

"… Susanetta."

I summon my best pout. "Are you making fun of my name?"

"O-Of course not." The attendant clears her throat. "Last name?"

"Vivas," Zelda says for me, before I can say something ridiculous like _Schreavanimus_. "Same for me. I'm Linkle Vivas."

 _Linkle? Vivas?_ Did she prepare beforehand?

The attendant looks between us. "Family?"

"Adopted," Zelda says. "She's my adopted sister."

The attendant raises her brows but says nothing else, scribbling on her sheets. "Then here, Susannetta and Linkle. Your numbers. Stick them on your jerseys when you get them. Head down there to be kitted up, all right?"

Halfway down the hallway, the girl from before is waiting. She startles.

"Oh, I'm sorry… is it all right if we go together? I… I'm so nervous…"

"Sure, you can tag along," Zelda gestures for her to follow as we go. "The more the merrier, right?"

"Great!" She holds out a hand, first to Zelda. "I overheard you talking to the lady. Susanetta and Linkle, right?"

Oh heck. That name is stuck forever now.

"That's right."

"My name's Rose."

We shake hands. She has a sturdy grip, this Rose, that despite her flustered demeanour, I think she'll take to the rink just fine.

In the next area, an attendant takes a whole party of us down to rental, where we check out boots, jerseys, guards, pads, helmets and the equipment. When I played, it wasn't with all the heavy protective armour on, so the chest guard presses more weight onto me, and my shoulder pads restrict my movement.

Rather get weighed down than get bashed in, though.

I flex my muscles in the gear. It's strange to feel it. Suddenly it's serious, and everything is in perspective.

I'm about to play a game in front of Bellona Strike.

Gosh, I hope my skill is up to par. The most competitive I've ever played is the staff friendly every summer, where I am the only exception to the roster (not being staff, of course), and even then, I'm certain the maids let me win, lest they incur some mythical wrath of mine.

Zelda pulls me aside as the other ladies wait by the window.

"What the hell is _Susanetta?"_ she snickers.

"I was under pressure!" I snap. "What the heck is _Linkle Vivas?"_

"A clever reference, that's what. Obviously a famous Zelda is Princess Zelda from The Legend of Zelda video game franchise, and the main character is called Link. Well, there's a female version – sort of—"

"Sort of?"

"Yeah. It's complicated." She waves me off. "His female counterpart is called Linkle. It harkens back to my actual name without giving it away."

I huff. "Okay, fine. And Vivas?"

She chews her lip.

"That… that was my old surname."

Oh.

"You're sure no one will make the connection?"

"Nah." She says in a small voice. "The last day I was a Vivas was the day Rudy and Jo took me and June away from the orphanage. So… nine years ago."

It obviously means a lot to her, so I smile, squeeze her padded shoulder. "It's a lovely name."

"Thanks."

A lady calls some numbers – not ours, nor Rose's – and a group of eight players slips onto the ice. With a closer view, I can see better how the try-outs will play out: like Rose said, it's four-a-side, no contact, with no apparent roles except for a goalkeeper. Three offensive players attempt to score against four defensive. Sometimes four people in a box seat lean across one another and talk, and they instigate a rotation of the goalkeeper. Sometimes they don't at all.

Since I've been here, Bellona, smack in the middle of these elite four, hasn't moved from her spot. I am filled with intimidation, so heavy my feet slug like lead.

Rose comes to my side. She's even bulkier now, with a thick blue jersey that covers her guards. "She's so cool…"

"Uh huh," I say, too nervous but also too wowed to say much else.

Zelda is by my other side. "She even does that hair flip thing in person!"

We're far away, so I can barely make the features of her face, but yep – her hand goes to slide her hair away, a classic Bellona Strike move that waters my confidence into a puddle.

The players twist and turn, slam their sticks against the ice and the puck, and my nerves bundle until they're knots in my skin. Soon, my focus is on Bellona, stony-faced as she traces the puck with her eyes.

When the linesman calls for finish, Bellona makes no move. The players are herded off the ice.

"All right, last group!" calls a linesman. He reads some more numbers for the opposing team. "124, you're goalkeeper!"

Rose startles. She's 124.

"Oh, god… goalkeeper…!"

"So that leaves 123, 125 and 126 to play defence first."

Zelda and I exchange glances. We're on the same team which suits us just fine, but now we actually have to _play_ the game.

 _It's fine,_ I tell myself, and I make my way over to the door. _It'll be just fine._

After Rose is kitted out with extra pads for goalkeeper position, she stumbles onto the rink first. "Eep!" she yelps, as she topples onto her butt.

"Rose!" Zelda comes to the edge. "Are you all right?"

"Fine!" She winces, draws her leg up. "I-I forgot to remove my skate guards."

" _Don't_ forget to remove your skate guards, ladies!" The linesman gives her a pointed look, to which Rose sheepishly pulls her skate guards off. Zelda and I do the same.

Rose and Zelda peel away on first touch. I rest my right skate on the ice gently, to feel its texture, its strength. It's not the same as field hockey – this cold, almost monstrous material can be your best friend or your worst nightmare. It can make you soar or it can make you stumble, so I always make sure to appreciate it, _feel_ its power, before I take over, gliding towards where Zelda, Rose, and our fourth teammate stands.

"So what's our plan?" Rose poses the question.

Zelda immediately holds her stick out. "All we have to do is prevent them from scoring. Rose, you goalkeep like your life depends on it. Ga— er, _Susanetta,_ I want you to keep watch at all times. Intercept if they get the puck. Pass to me or… er…"

"Leigh," says the fourth girl. "Leigh R. Jenkins, soon to be the best player in all existence. Remember that name!"

"… Sure. So pass to me or Leigh. Leigh, you can do the same."

We join the warm-ups, only a few laps of the rink. It doesn't last for very long, because I imagine Bellona is tired of watching us all day and just wants to go home.

"Teams!" the referee calls. "Are you ready? Remember: this is only supposed to be a casual game. You are not being judged on skill, but rather, your initiative."

Zelda scoffs under her breath. "Yeah, right. Let's crush them, Gail."

"I-I'll try."

She shoots me an unimpressed look just as the ref blows his whistle. Movement explodes. The puck is in our possession to start with, just to give us a slight advantage over the Red team, who has a concrete goal over 'hold the puck'. Zelda zips to the furthest spot and passes to me. Suddenly, I feel all four players homing on my position like missiles, and I juggle the puck between the stick's toe as I attempt to avoid them.

"Pass!" calls Leigh.

I shoot – it's a good one that lands right in her stick's toe. She dribbles it around in an attempt to avoid a hulking Red who is coming in hot.

"Leave off!" she yells, slamming the puck away. It smacks into a cone closer to the goal, and one of the Reds snaps it up.

"Leigh!" Zelda yells.

Leigh shrugs it off, and the three of us converge to retake it. The Red player nears the goal, and Rose trembles in her shin pads.

"Oh god. Oh god!"

They make to shoot. It smacks into Rose's stick, but the player rockets forwards from the momentum and takes another shot – it soars through Rose's legs this time, and into the net.

The Reds cheer. My brows furrow.

"Don't do that again, Leigh!" Zelda growls, as the puck is passed back to her. "Three-lane form!"

I know what that means, because it's obvious. If you mentally split the rink into three lanes horizontally, you should have at least one player in each for best coverage. I go for the right, and since Leigh is in the middle and Zelda on the left, there's no trouble there. But as soon as Zelda whacks the puck to Leigh, she heads into my territory.

"T-Three lane!" I yell, but the same Red player hunts her down. "I'm free!" But Leigh stubbornly dribbles, right into the wall. Where the Red intercepts and cuts the puck into her stick, nearing the goal again.

 _Not if I can help it._ I skate as fast as my legs will go, soon coming to her back, and reaching around, careful to avoid her legs. The puck skitters— there's an opening— I lunge.

The puck slides my way. I shoot in the opposite direction, skipping, dodging the opponents who attempt to cut me off.

"Pass!" Zelda yells, as one comes right for me.

I smack it to her. A golden pass, it nestles right into her stick.

But another Red takes her by surprise, causing her to yelp, hesitate for just a split second. It's enough. The Red takes the puck and makes a surprise shot—the puck burns down the rink—

Rose slams her stick down. It curbs the puck, skidding to the side, and she recovers and slices it straight back to me.

"Time!" the ref calls.

I almost sink to the ground. Already, I'm sweaty and exhausted, and my muscles are on fire. It wasn't even that long – not more than five minutes, at most.

"A good match." He turns to the box.

Bellona is muttering to the others. They're passing looks between us. Bellona's eyes flicker to mine, only for a second, but a second long enough that it raises the hairs on my neck.

No goalie swap. Okay. I'm not sure if that's good or bad for Rose, or for any of us.

"Offence, change to defence. 124, pass your kit to 121. Defence, to offence."

"Strategy?" Rose says to Zelda once she's peeled her armour away.

"Yeah. _Think._ " She glowers at Leigh. "Don't go hitting your puck any which way for the Red team to just take."

"Pfft. It's not about _strategy,"_ Leigh says. "It's about initiative."

"Doesn't give you permission to play like a sock," she snipes.

"I don't like your attitude. _I_ will win this game for us!" She brandishes her stick high – which is illegal in-play, by the way. "All will know my name!"

"Ready?" calls the ref. "Begin!"

Leigh screams, "LEEEEEIGH RRRRR JEEEENKIIIIINS!" and charges.

"I hate everything," Zelda mutters, going to skate after her.

We pick up the pace. The Reds, offence-wise, are a woman down to attribute for the goalkeeper. A small advantage, but it's harder to score when there are Reds constantly grappling for puck dominance.

They're an infallible as we are, however – as the pucks shifts between them, one blunders. A slight mistake that costs.

I steal the puck. Zelda is to my left, Leigh to my right, and Rose behind. Two crowd the wings and the last is just behind me, trying to make up for the mistake. I can sense the stick clapping too close to my heels for comfort.

A Red splits off from Leigh to hinder me. I'm trapped from all sides.

"Leigh!" I scream, and pass to her.

Leigh takes the puck and goes for the shot. The goalkeeper is rigid but isn't prepared – and yet, it goes way, way wide, right into another Red's stick, who swivels fast and takes the puck away.

The goal was practically open!

Zelda lets out a noise of frustration.

As the puck resets, Zelda finds me.

"Gail, you're going to have to score. Leigh is useless, and Rose seems reluctant to get too close to the net."

"But what about you?"

"I'm faster and a better passer, but you're more precise. I know you can make a good shot." She points. "Go!"

Off she goes. Suddenly, somehow, after a tenacious bashing of sticks, the puck is Zelda's for long enough that she skids it to me.

A Red comes to my back. I feel her presence emanating like a harsh wind. Gritting my teeth, I skate harder, faster, ignoring the temptation to dump it into the scoring zone. But all three come into my personal space, choking me from the puck.

A flash. Rose is on my left. She's open.

I shoot the puck to her. She catches, goes forwards— Reds pile on her. The goal is so close, and the goalkeeper is distracted by her teammates.

"Score!" she shrieks, as the puck zooms to me.

I score the ice and churn dust as I twist out of intercept reach and shoot.

The puck slams into the net.

" _Yay!"_ I screech. I _scored!_ In _front of Bellona Strike!_

Enthusiastic, I glance her way, but her iron face makes no indication. No praise, no lauding, not even a smidgen of criticism.

"And we'll call that time as well!" The ref says, culling my celebration. The skaters comes to a gradual stop, and all tension flies away. At least, any that isn't directed as Leigh.

I weigh my goods and bads of my play. I made many mistakes, but I think I did well enough to be proud, to let my chest puff beneath the guard. Zelda claps me on the arm, suddenly shaking, and comes to stop by my side.

"They're deliberating," she whispers.

I look up. The box is talking. Animatedly.

Rose comes to stop by my other side.

"Do… do you think we did all right?"

I don't have an answer for her.

After what seems like an eternity, Bellona stands. The ref comes off the ice and they chat, with him leaning through the door to the substitute bench.

He nods, and comes back over to us.

"Thank you for your match today, ladies. Miss Strike would like to have a word with 124, 125 and 126," – he gestures to Rose, Zelda and I – "in private. The rest of you, safe journeys."

There is a mixture of reactions. Some grumble, some hang their heads in shame, some glare at us with so much venom I could fill a bottle to poison my worst enemy. Even Leigh shoots Zelda a promise of murder as she skates her way to the side-lines.

My heart is in my throat.

None of us say anything as Bellona skates to meet us.

She's as radiant in person as she is on television. Her brown hair is long and luxurious, like she's constantly in a hair product commercial. Her brown eyes and brown skin glow with presence. She knows she's hot stuff, and it projects in the way her head is high, how she has that proud expression that curves her lips. Even the way she moves is graceful, like a swan, as she comes to stop before us.

"That was some excellent play, ladies."

Zelda has gone whiter-than-white next to me. "Oh, gee— thank you— we really appreciate it, Miss Strike."

I'm too tongue-tied to even manage a _thank you._

She looks between us. "Are you all friends?"

Zelda clears her throat forcefully. "Susanetta and I are sisters. Rose we met in the line."

"And your name?"

"L-Linkle."

"Well, it's a pleasure to meet you three, Susanetta, Linkle, and Rose. I wanted to talk to you about your match." She faces Rose first. "I thought your goalkeeping skills were superb."

Rose quivers on the spot. I swear there's tears in her eyes. "Oh, wow, t-thank you. Goalkeeper is my favourite position, actually. I-I tried really hard to get good at it when I went to practice at my local rink with my sister."

"Well, despite your entrance mishap, you did well for what you had. As for you two," she turns to face Zelda and I, and I think I might just pee my pants, "I think you both exhibited qualities that we would want of team players. Frequent communication is a must." Her gaze slips to Zelda. "Did you come up with a strategy?"

"I-I tried to," she admits. "I— er, _we_ didn't have very long to plan."

"I could see you banding your team before the start of each match, and yelling about the three lanes." She nods. "That's good."

Zelda just rolls her skates on the ground.

"And Susanetta, I think you're incredibly skilled at your field already. How long have you played recreationally?"

 _Incredibly skilled?_ Have I died and gone to the blissful afterlife?

"Well, since I was little," I say, trying to cobble a truth that actually sounds believable. "Since I could walk, I've been wielding a hockey stick, really…"

"I could see where you were making bold moves that played off. Assessing where best to take the risks and playing them to the end, despite… variables. All good qualities that would make you perfect for our team."

"Does… does that mean we're in?" I dare to ask.

But Bellona laughs. "Not by a long shot. There are quite a handful of skilled players who came today, so we will be holding another, perhaps a few, rounds of try-outs. But congratulations," she smiles gently, "you have passed the first one."

If I weren't on ice, I would've collapsed to the floor.

To be validated as _incredibly skilled_ by my favourite player of all time…

There are simply no words to describe the feeling.

Bellona smiles gently again. "If you could make your way to the lobby, the receptionist will take your details." She turns, but not without saying, "I hope to see you again shortly."

Then she's off the ice, back in her box, head down as they discuss.

All three of us numbly make our way back to the stands. I can't believe it, Zelda can't believe it, and Rose looks like her ghost has left her.

Honestly? This is _so_ much more fulfilling than a signature.

We redress back to our normal clothes, chatting, squealing with delight. We're all sweaty and gross, so Rose decides to take her stuff to the showers.

"It was so nice to meet you girls!" She shakes both of our hands again. "Wow, I cannot _wait_ to tell my sister about this!"

Before we head off, we exchange phone numbers – our details going into her phone under _Susanetta Vivas_ and _Linkle Vivas._ I'm too elated to care, and we part ways as we swagger back to the hallway.

"Holy shit," Zelda says. "I can't believe that just happened!"

At the desk, we hand the man our contact details. He, in turn, gives us forms to fill in.

"How old are you?" he asks.

"Seventeen, and Su's eighteen," Zelda says.

"Then I'll need permission from your parents or guardians, all right?"

Which gives Zelda pause, but she quickly fills her face with a smile. "Of course."

Only when we're safely in Zelda's car do we scream.

" _We're through! We're freakin' through!"_ Zelda is shaking her arms so much the car wobbles from side to side. " _And Bellona freakin' loves us! Ahhhhh!"_

"I can't believe it! Did you see the way she called me _incredibly skilled?"_

"I know! And me, like, a strategic master? We're so awesome! _She's_ so awesome!"

We laugh so hard we're almost crying, until it eventually dies down and reality comes back.

We weren't supposed to try out. We weren't even supposed to _sneak_ out. Because the truth is, playing for the Angeles All-Stars can't become an actual thing.

I'm the country's princess, and princesses don't play ice hockey.

Especially this princess, who is in the middle of a Selection and a Rebel Resurgence. Who would never get permission from the king. I can't. I shouldn't.

But I want to.

It's a deep feeling that has somehow resurfaced over the course of the night. A brilliant light, once smothered, now shines in my heart like a glorious night sky. For that hour where I forgot my duties, forgot my true identity, I was steeped in this bliss. It is pride, it is joy, it is a thousand good feelings that crash and collide into one.

It shouldn't exist.

Zelda cranks the car into motion, but sends me a forlorn look. "What are we gonna' do? The next try-outs. Should we… should we go? Is it a good idea?"

It's a terrible idea, but as this rare, special feeling in my chest dwindles to ash, I want to do nothing more than nurture it, feed it back into my soul. To let it shine again.

It forms in the way of words that unravel before I even realise.

"Trying out again can't hurt. It's not… it's not like we're on the actual team."

"Yeah." She holds up her head. "Yeah, you're right."

But it sounds like the only people we're trying to justify this to… is ourselves.

* * *

 **A/N:** And so begins a possible secret career in ice hockey for our unfettered princess... what can go wrong? ;) Hope you enjoyed the chapter!

I feel I should add a disclaimer that my hockey knowledge is zilch so apologies in advance if there's anything wrong. I do try to research what I need (including watching YouTube videos on popular hockey drills...) but sometimes I favour le drama and le action over accuracy.

Next update will probably not come on a Sunday as I'm busy on both for the next two weeks (America the country, I will be in you). Otherwise, many thanks for the continued support, drink water, eat fruit, and enjoy the coming of summer (or winter if you're Milly).

~ GWA

NTT: "I can't think it is very fair to let Valerian have the princess all to himself."


	11. Yesterday is History

I'm so tired I want to sleep for a thousand years.

Aderyn slips into my room as quietly as she can, but she might as well be banging a symbol. It has to be eight in the morning, at least, which is completely normal time for me… had I not spent the night sneaking out to play hockey.

My dreams replayed the moment over and over again. Our team, scoring that vital goal. Bellona, calling me _incredibly skilled._ Her inviting us back for the next session.

I want to bottle the moment so I can relive it over and over. Forever.

"Good morning, Your Highness," Aderyn greets. She opens the curtains as she goes. "Your first lesson is in an hour, so we must start preparing now if you are to be prompt."

I groan and sluggishly dress into a robe as Aderyn prepares a quick bath.

Zelda and I finally got in at twelve, but it took me a solid forty-five minutes of moving forwards and backtracking until I could find a safe moment to sneak back into my room. By the time I showered and hit my bedsheets, it was one. Zelda probably got in before me, but it's much of a muchness. We're both exhausted, and the cherry on top is I don't think I warmed up enough, so my legs ache.

I bathe, wash and dress. With a thick layer of make-up, you can hardly tell how sunken my cheeks are or the dimness of my eyes. When I'm presentable, five minutes before class, I trudge my way down the halls in silence to the Amendment Wing classroom.

Halfway there, I meet Zelda, eyes shuttered in a threat to fall asleep against the arch windows.

"I am dying," she confesses.

"Me too." I try not to be too loud, for fear Naomi will overhear. "You're earlier than I was."

"Jo always wakes me up at, like, ridiculous o'clock when he starts his morning security routine." She massages her eyes. "That I have to go to this stupid lesson is ridiculous in the first place, but now I have to get up _early_ for it?"

I don't have a response, since her resentment for the situation rolls off her like bad breath. Nothing I say will help, anyway.

To my surprise, the Selected are nowhere to be seen outside the classroom. James Jonathan Just – JJ – however, waits outside the door, his blond hair a messy, effortless nest upon his head. He smiles at our approach.

"You're both late!" he chortles.

"Late?" Zelda scoffs. "We're, like, a minute early."

"To my classes, I ask that you are five minutes early, so we can settle in and start on the hour without interruptions." He fixes what I think is his version of a stern look: it's more tinged with smugness than irritation. "You must be Miss Zelda Bezuidenhout-Leeuwenhoek."

She narrows her eyes. He got that right. First try.

"Just Miss Zelda is fine. Why? Am I excused from all further lessons indefinitely?"

"Not to my knowledge, no," he says, completely missing the way Zelda's face sours. "For future reference, please come to my classes early next time, all right?"

Zelda grumbles. I can hardly believe that every single Selected made it on time, but when we open the classroom door, I count all the faces and realise there isn't anyone missing. It's a miracle.

The classroom windows are open, overlooking a border of thick deciduous trees below, but otherwise the place looks like a regular classroom. Tables are wide enough to seat two, so in columns of three, it goes back far enough that if you were seated right at the back you could, potentially, get away with doing nothing.

"I have a seating plan." JJ points. "Miss Zelda, you will be next to Mr Bahe at the front here."

Zelda frowns. "So I can't sit next to Gail?"

"His Majesty and Mr Bezuidenhout-Leeuwenhoek informed me you are both troublemakers together. I'm not leaving anything to chance."

Her frown warps into a glare, but she lumbers next to Kajika Bahe. I see him mutter something to her and shake hands, and for what little I know of Kajika, at least he's a good soul that can easily handle Zelda's abrasiveness.

"And me?"

"You're at the back there, Your Highness."

Right next to Valerian Griffin.

Oh god. I don't know if my knees can handle this.

He throws a winning smile as I take a seat next to him.

"It's a pleasure to spend this time with you, Your Highness." He takes my hand and kisses the back. RIP to me. "I am enthusiastic about these classes."

"How is your history, Valerian?" I ask.

"Perhaps not as good as it could be," he admits as he ties his hair back into a full ponytail (which, guess what, looks as hot as literally every other hairstyle of his). "So I look forward to learning something new."

JJ prepares the whiteboard at the front, and that's when I spot Sheng. He's been comically squeezed into the desk chair next to Levi Song and seems to be taking all of the pop star's space. At once, his gaze finds mine, full of question and confusion. He's probably still shocked I kept him through the first elimination – soon, I just know, he'll try to approach me for answers. But I'm not going to make a deliberate effort to seek him out, so he'll have to do that work himself.

I tear my eyes away, and a desk over is Kingsley. He's already glancing at me when I look over, and winks. Hard to miss the dark circles under his eyes, but even with them, he's obscenely attraction. With him and Valerian, I think I might not survive this class.

"Good morning, gentlemen, ladies, and welcome to our first history class." JJ writes his name on the board, two broad Js. "My name is James Jonathan Just, but JJ is fine."

Kingsley raises his hand. "JJ, if I may be so bold as to ask: is the seating arrangement permanent? I can't think it is very fair to let Valerian have the princess all to himself."

The boys go rigid around me, but I can see the agreement on their faces. Valerian's face tightens. Just slightly.

"Would've been nice if the first question posed in this class was history-related, but I suppose we are still in midst of the Selection. Yes, Mr Obasanjo, it is permanent – for as long as I deem it. I may switch seats if and when necessary."

"Of course," Kingsley concedes. "It is _your_ judgement call, sir, and I know you will endeavour to always make the right choice for our sakes."

Already it's like the question has made Valerian self-conscious. I lean over to him. "Doesn't it make more sense if his name is JJ _J?_ Because he has three J names?"

Valerian's mouth tips up, but he doesn't reply. It's all I need to see.

"Of… course," JJ says, an eyebrow raised. "No _sir,_ either. This will be a casual environment. I want everyone to feel like they can come and talk to me about whatever, history or not. Along with a notebook for you to use as you see fit, in front of you is the syllabus I've prepared for the Selection."

I scan through it. Nothing exciting, really – except our most recent history is first. As in, all of us were alive during the time, modern. I suppose it's the easiest topic for today.

"As you can see, today we'll be covering the Southern Rebels and their most recent defeat during the last Selection. For most of our time today we'll be discussing it – however, I was able to procure the palace's documentary of the time, so we will also watch that at intervals."

He sits on his desk. "So, then, who would like to start us off?" He immediately nods at Kingsley. "Perhaps Mr Obasanjo would kindly enlighten us the barest details."

"Certainly." Kingsley stands, hands clasped behind his back. "The Southern Rebels were formed before our time, but gained significant traction during the reign of Queen Diantha Schreave, grandmother of our esteemed Princess Gail…"

As Kingsley prattles on by details I already know, I glance at Valerian. He doesn't look particularly invested in my family's history, and it's information I have to take note of. To be part of the Selection is to _become_ part of my family's history. Though his face isn't as sour as others around us; Elliot looks like he might fall asleep at any moment (mood), and Parker twirls his pen animatedly, but only to draw faces on the back of his syllabus.

"Not bad, Mr Obasanjo," says JJ, once Kingsley is finished. "That was quite a thorough recollection. Almost as if you rehearsed it beforehand."

Kingsley places a hand to his chest. "I just find our history and culture so fascinating, JJ, that I couldn't help but read my textbooks into the hours of the night."

"Of course." He scribbles my family tree on the board. Diantha, my deceased grandmother, sits above Appa. "Perhaps someone else can elaborate on the core of their rebellion. Why precisely did the Southern Rebels form? Hands, please."

A few hands raise. "They were unhappy with the caste system," says Dominik.

"Not wrong, but not quite correct, either." JJ chooses another hand.

Nathaniel. "It was more to do with the division the castes created. The laws at the time benefited the high castes over the low castes in such a way that people of low castes were treated like lesser citizens."

"Indeed, to the point where there was outright discrimination." He pauses. "Is everyone writing this down? This will be included in your homework."

There's a collective sputter, but only Zelda openly voices her disdain.

" _Homework?"_ she spits. "You can't be serious!"

"I don't joke about homework, Miss Zelda."

"This isn't a _school."_

"No, but I use homework to reinforce learning and encourage independent study."

I can hear Zelda grinding her teeth from all the way back here.

JJ continues on as I reluctantly open my notebook and ready the pen.

"The conflict between the rebels and the royal family came to head during the Selection of Jun Fitzroy Schreave – our current king, Roy. What motivated them to take action, and why did they direct this vitriol to the then-prince Roy?"

Less hands go up. I could answer this, easily, but words lodge in my throat.

"Mr Santiago?" JJ calls. "You are the historian amongst us."

"Twenty-first century history, which is not the same…" Ben clears his throat. "But anyway. The rebels targeted King Roy because he was the heir at the time. The face of the monarchy, of the future."

"Correct." Dramatically, JJ circles Roy's name. "His Majesty, at the time, had a habit of… shirking his duties as heir, in turn causing the Southern Rebels to fear for the future of Illéa. To an extreme degree." He dances on words like one would tread around corpses – like he doesn't want to disturb them. Maybe disturb me. "He had a reputation as the _irresponsible prince,_ even during his Selection."

No one needs to hear how it ended. We all know. I, first-hand.

The bond I share with Roy forces me to speak. "My brother was nineteen at the time. Don't you think that matters for something?"

JJ's eyes flash with intrigue. "Indeed. He was the same age as some of you, even _younger_ than some of you."

"So then their behaviour was unjustified. Everyone makes mistakes, especially when they're young."

"I don't think they saw it like that," JJ volleys back. "They saw it as protecting their future. I don't think what they did was right, Your Highness," he holds up his hands, "as I am just a messenger as such, but never is history so black and white. There are grey areas in every part of life. We are all responsible for each other."

My stomach twists, and it's not because of the pitiful breakfast I swallowed this morning. I already know Roy made mistakes, that the rebels made mistakes. I know their war could've been entirely avoided had they opened their ears and hearts.

It's that I thought I knew that it _was_ all history, but now the rebels are back. The Resurgence.

I still can't fathom it, not exactly. Roy said they wanted results, and immediately, but that can't be the only reason for their uprising once more, because even rebels understand that monumental structural changes to society take time and patience. There has to be something more. Something I don't understand yet.

All I know is that I better find out soon, because with this Selection, I am now the face of my family.

And I don't want their next target to be me.

* * *

"Your homework is to critically evaluate the manoeuvres of the Southern Rebels. Doesn't have to be in favour of their actions, and you may choose a specific occurrence. One thousand words minimum." JJ nods. "Class is dismissed."

Chatter explodes out. Everyone's just glad the two-hour session is over. "Well, that was boring…" I mutter to Valerian as we close our notebooks.

"It was… intriguing," he says eventually, which is the polite way to say _boring_ and by the look on his face, he totally knows it.

"At least I had good company."

He laughs heartily. "I should be saying that about you, Your Highness. It is such a shame we didn't get to talk very much… but perhaps you would be interested in a walk of the grounds?"

Oh, I would be very, very interested. I tuck my notebook under my armpit and offer him the other arm. "We still have some time before lunch. Let's do it."

He holds my arm like one would hold a precious metal. Together we exit the room and wander into the gardens, which are freshly sparkling from a short rain early this morning. All I smell around me is wet grass, but it freshens me inside and out. Suddenly I don't feel so tired anymore.

Though that could be because of the hot boy walking me around.

Valerian doesn't say much. Maybe he's nervous, maybe he's pensive, maybe both, but it's a nice silence and not at all awkward. The breeze lilts his long hair, which he frees from the ponytail until it dances over his back.

On the courtyard by the fountain, a five-tiered stone masterpiece that sends sheets of clear water down with hardly a wrinkle, we pause. "Your home is truly lovely." Valerian traces a finger in the pools. "I cannot imagine living here."

"But you do," I point out. "At least, temporarily."

"Yes," he says, "but it was a shock to be waited on in everything I could possibly imagine. To be woken, to be bathed, to be dressed and fed. All I have to do was click my fingers and my three super-hearing valets would appear by my side to give whatever I require. I suppose I cannot imagine this being my life."

I wonder at the implication, but leave it be. "I guess I'm just used to it."

"Oh, no. I didn't say it wasn't nice." He grins. Oh my god. No wonder he's a model. "It is quite enjoyable not having to think about what to wear every day."

"I know, right? My lady's maid Aderyn mostly just chooses for me! It's great!"

"It really takes off the stress!"

We laugh and giggle and generally just be silly. Soon Valerian stands and offers me a hand.

"Shall we dance?"

"Dance?" I question, even though I'm already taking his hand. "Why? And there's no music?"

He whistles a high note. "I can make the music."

I think he'll pull me into a tango position, but instead he holds one arm up and then the other in a rhythm to his whistling. I can't help but laugh and dance along, and soon we're jigging to some upbeat, peppy tune that fills me with a bright yellow happiness.

We break when we both start heaving for breath from our increasing-outlandish dance moves. I might have gone too hard because I can definitely feel sweat in my armpits. Super attractive.

"I didn't know you liked to dance."

"Ahah, not professionally." He grins. "But I do enjoy it."

"You're quite the dark horse." I sit back on the rim of the fountain. "Hiding any other secret talents?"

"Well, I do also bake, when I have the time."

"Oh, like Kingsley!" I chirrup.

Valerian's grin freezes in place. "Ah. Yes. Like Kingsley… I heard your brother is quite the baker, too, if Kingsley has anything to say for it."

"Aw, I bet Kingsley was gushing about Tay and how cute he is, right?"

Valerian is disturbingly still. "He was… something, I suppose I shall say—"

"Oh! Your Highness!"

Kingsley hops down the courtyard stairs towards us, huge sunglasses obscuring half his face. Speak of the devil…?

"And Valerian. Hello, friend."

"Yes. Hello, Kingsley," Valerian says, but not without a slight edge to his voice. "May I ask what you are doing here?"

"After class, I simply had to come out here for air." He fans himself. "I love to walk around the gardens. What a coincidence that you are both here as well!"

"It is nice out here, isn't it?" I agree.

Valerian inhales deeply. "A… coincidence." He stands ramrod straight, not at all that supple body that was doing the chicken five minutes ago, and offers his arm to me. "Well, I think Her Highness and I were just heading inside."

"So soon?" He shakes his head. "It's such a shame to waste this lovely weather, don't you think, Your Highness?"

"I'm sure lunch will be soon anyway. We should head inside together."

Kingsley smiles and takes my other arm. My heart is still beating hard after the dancing, and so inside feels a lot hotter than it actually is. I take deep breaths as Kingsley hangs his sunglasses on his shirt, so we're just three peas on a pod. Except, you know, Valerian is as tense as a rock, and Kingsley is not at all his talkative self either.

"You two must have a lot in common, both being models," I say, hoping it'll loosen them up. "Did you know each other before the Selection?"

"Unfortunately not," says Kingsley. "We work for different agencies. I did not have the pleasure of meeting the legendary Valerian Griffin until we both stepped through the palace doors." He puffs his chest. "Though we have become acquainted since. We've played quite a few cards games since the Selection began. I've won all of them, of course."

Valerian whips to face him, eyes wide. "I wouldn't say that is quite the truth, Kingsley."

I laugh. "You do have more hidden talents!"

Kingsley smiles. "If you can call losing a talent, Your Highness."

 _Ohhhh, burn!_

But Valerian doesn't rise to the jest. "Maurice Elsmore started it. Sort of." He clears his throat. "He brought along a deck of cards and asked Parker Zaleski to play Fifty-Two Card Pick Up. Parker… played right into it, but then we ended up playing a few rounds of poker, and it has suddenly become a staple amongst us."

"I am an excellent poker player, Your Highness." Kingsley tugs on my arm. "Perhaps you should join us for a game or two?"

I have to admit, I've never played poker in my life. "Is that the one where you undress every time you lose?"

"In normal poker, we just bet chips. What you're referring to is strip poker. But" Kingsley winks, "we could play that too, if you wanted."

I think I would faint if either Kingsley or Valerian took their shirts off, let alone any other piece of clothing. "I'll have to pass on strip poker, but regular poker sounds like fun! I will watch a few games."

"Then after lunch." He reaches across to pet Valerian's arm. "If Valerian is ready to lose again."

Valerian's face is so blank I could slap on some paint and call it an abstract masterpiece. What is up with him? A moment ago we were laughing so hard our cheeks hurt.

Lunch is a rowdier affair than of late, fuelled by the promise of my attendance to a poker game later today. I sit amongst the boys – once again jammed between Valerian and Kingsley – and eat a happy share of a Wagyu burger, hand-cut potato wedges and fresh sugar snap peas.

At least, I'm onto my last bite of tasty beef when I catch Sheng's eye. He's staring – no, glaring? – at me. I lower my fork and give him a hard stare back, though I can't imagine it was very intimidating, and he finally averts his gaze.

I think that will be the end of it, that he won't dare approach me with the same demeanour as we share privately… until he does exactly that as dinner finishes.

"Your Highness," he greets. "Kingsley. Valerian. May I—"

Kingsley cuts across smoothly. "Her Highness and I were just heading to the Men's Parlour."

Valerian clears his throat, but says nothing. Sheng looks between them both, but his expression is unreadable.

"I see." He tries again, this time raising his chin. "May I speak to you, Your Highness?"

Sheng's jaw feathers. He really, _really_ wants to talk. I scrounge for some excuse, some way to extricate myself from this horrible encounter and make it to the Men's Parlour unscathed, where no conversation could possibly be private with the number of people around.

"You are speaking to her now," says Kingsley, matter-of-factly.

"With respect, I asked Her Highness," Sheng levels. "Not you."

Kingsley goes rigid at my side.

"We can wait for you in the Men's Parlour, Your Highness," Valerian says, almost in a way that wants to keep the peace. "If you would like that."

 _Nope!_ I want to scream. _That is the opposite of what I want!_

But to refuse Sheng here, in front of Kingsley and Valerian, is sure to set off some alarm bells. I haven't been seen talking to Sheng publically for very long, and people will start to think something is between us if I brush him off now.

"Of course." I slip my arms free and wave them away. "You two go on ahead, I'll meet you there." I turn to Sheng and very loudly proclaim, "What would you like to talk about?"

Kingsley and Valerian go. Sheng and I navigate our way into the hallways before Sheng offers his arm, which is quickly becoming a custom, to escort me around the palace with.

Reluctantly, I take his arm and all the memories that come with it. One time, I nearly fell over (I was staring at his bare chest, which is a perfectly legitimate reason to trip over one's self), and he caught me before I hit the ground, instead landing perfectly in his corded, muscular arm. That was before we were dating, and when I was visiting the stables to actually see my horse, and the nostalgia feels so wrong and right at the same time.

Sheng leads us to one of the ceiling-high windows. There, he stops, rests a hand against the sill.

"Why?"

I grumble. "You're just going right into it, aren't you?"

"I'm not going to dress my surprise, Gail." He keeps his voice low – Naomi is, after all, somewhere behind us. "I thought… I was sure, after how the interview went—"

"Well, you thought wrong, okay?" I free my arm, pretending to take in the view of the outside courtyard and the driveway beyond, but my head is so clouded of old memories it's like they're playing in front of me. "I don't see why you had to get me alone to say that when it should be obvious."

"It… it is obvious." He scratches the back of his neck, tinted red. "I don't know. I thought maybe… maybe you were keeping me under a condition…"

 _He knows,_ my brain screeches. _He knows about the deal I made with Senior Mah._

But he doesn't glare at me, doesn't radiate disappointment. He still has no idea.

"I did want to say…" His hand twitches – he was going to reach for me, but thought better of it. "I wanted to say thank you."

"Thank you for keeping you?"

"Yes."

I snort. "I didn't keep you because you asked for a second chance."

"Then why did you?"

My mouth dries up. _Lie,_ I think.

"I kept you," I say carefully, "because I want a fresh start. You have to earn my trust and affection like every other Selected in the competition. If you're willing to fight for me, then I am willing to give you a chance – first, second or not."

But my heart doesn't twist at the words. It knows it's not a lie.

 _Am_ I willing to give Sheng a second chance?

He nods once, but his lips are curled in that cute little shy smile. Oh, how that smile used to flip my stomach. Now it fills me with an unnameable emotion that simultaneously makes me want to coo and scream.

"All right," he says. "I will… try my best, Your Highness."

"Good."

For a moment, we watch the outside world. The clouds that pass overhead, the sprinkles of movement on the horizon. How strange, that in another life, I would be just a girl, and he would be just a boy, and our world would be so different to now, and yet ironed and smooth. Not like the tangled string of lies I tiptoe on like tightrope.

"We should head to the Men's Parlour."

He offers his arm.

And despite everything, I take it.

* * *

 **A/N:** *Mushu voice* I LIIIIIIIVE! (Unlike half the characters in tsats, am I right? *dodges incoming projectiles*) I've had a good holiday and rest, and now I'm ready to dive back in. This chapter was a fun one, so I hope you enjoyed it!

Let me know what you thought of the shenanigans here and the impending poker game...

~ GWA

NTT: "Those two... they don't like each other very much."


	12. Poker Face

The moment I walk in, I sense a new atmosphere in the Men's Parlour. It's gone from casual lounge of friendly attitudes and teasing jest… to a savage, harsh arena, where every man fights for himself.

All this because of a _poker_ game?

Sheng loosens a sigh besides me. This set-up doesn't seem to surprise him in the slightest: a frenetic gathering in the centre of the room that has moved the position of the furniture so that the polished oak tables are slammed together for a larger playing surface. It's impossible for me to see around because the boys have jammed themselves into every nook and cranny. Only a handful haven't bothered, including Ansel and Jeremiah, who occupy a lone windowsill together with a chess set, lost in their own thoughts.

I squeeze Sheng's arm. "I want to get a closer look."

"But why?"

"To watch, of course."

His frown deepens, but he leads us forwards.

"Hey, Sheng!" I'm surprised to see Avian slap Sheng on the back, to which Sheng barely flinches. "Damn, that hurt. Oh! And Your Highness!" He makes a poor attempt to straighten his posture.

"Hi, Avian," Sheng says.

"You both came just in time. Kingsley and Valerian are duking it out. Typical game of Texas Hold'em. Kingsley will probably win, as he always does."

"Again?" He makes it sound like it's exhausting.

"Yeah. Just… come watch." He breaches the cusp of the group and yells, "Make way for the princess!"

Boys part upon seeing me. Soon I have a perfect view of the table and the four gentlemen seated around it. It's Kingsley and Valerian, like I expected, but also Parker Zaleski – how he got involved is beyond me – and Nathaniel Durham. They each have two cards and a pile of red, blue, green and black chips. They must have played a few rounds already, because Kingsley and Valerian already have a huge pile between them.

Kingsley breaks poker face to grin at me. "Excellent, Your Highness. You've come to watch my victory."

Valerian bristles at the comment, but says nothing, fidgeting with his cards. His poker face is so cold compared to his grace. Nathaniel, meanwhile, holds an unwavering soft smile, and Parker struggles to stop his mouth from trembling at all.

"Deal, Parker," says Kingsley.

Parker unfolds the top card of the deck and places it with the row of four face-up cards. Queen of Spades, whatever that means. He makes an audible sigh, whereas the others do nothing. The scene around me turns deathly quiet, a change from the racket I came into only moments ago.

"Check," Kingsley says brusquely.

The turn passes to Valerian. He slides two chips over. I don't know the colour denominations, but judging by the rustle around me, it's a lot. Nathaniel matches. Parker does, too.

"Raise," Kingsley calls, throwing in not two, but six chips. The three boys match his bet before Parker unfurls the final card. Ace of Hearts.

He scowls. "Fold."

"It's not your turn," Kingsley snaps, before he pushes another handful of chips into the betting pile. "We start _left_ of the dealer, remember?"

Parker goes bright red, and I feel a shred of pity for him before he lifts his chin and glares down Valerian.

Valerian pauses. He watches Kingsley with such an intensity it's like they're not betting valueless chips. No, it's become more than that – he's betting his pride. Kingsley makes no motion to return any sort of indication of his hand, but the dare in his gaze is there, challenging Valerian. They could suddenly draw swords and duel and I wouldn't even be surprised.

Valerian matches the bet, adding to the growing pile in the centre.

Nathaniel takes a moment to ponder too, and adds.

"I fold," Parker says with more finality this time. "So reveal."

"Full House," Kingsley says, turning over his cards. It's a load of face cards in the Spades and Hearts suits.

Valerian flips his cards. "Full House also." He has a mix of more face cards.

Nathaniel scoffs. "Straight."

Two Full Houses. The boys yell and howl around them, until finally Nathaniel points to Kingsley's hand. "Kingsley's beats Valerian. Higher denominations."

"Ahah!" Kingsley booms, raking in the bet into his mini mountain. "I do believe that makes me a clear winner."

There's a distinctive grumble amongst them all. It's almost like it's boring to watch Kingsley win, which seems to be a recurring thing. Is he lucky, or just smart?

"The game hasn't finished yet," Nathaniel points out. "We still have chips to bet."

"Then I suppose this calls for a last resort: all or nothing." His eyes flash to mine. Okay, it's kind of hot. "Who will attempt to de-throne me?"

"I'd like to bow out." Valerian stands. "Perhaps later I will play."

"Oh, come now, Valerian." Kingsley waves at him to sit. "Don't tell me you're chicken."

"No," Valerian says, stiffening, "but you always seem to want to play poker with me, Kingsley, and I think it's only fair I offer someone else the chance, if anyone wants to take my place?"

Silence. No one seems keen to take that chance.

Until one voice says, "I will play."

The boys make way for Soren Reinhart like ripping silk in two. Of course, he must be perfect at this sort of thing: he hardly has an emotion on him. Today his platinum blond hair is wavier so it shadows his eyes, pronouncing the almost hollow-like quality of them.

Kingsley's smile falters for a second. "I did always like a challenge."

Parker coughs. "A-Actually, Soren can have my chips." He unceremoniously shoves them his way before standing up and inching back into the crowd.

"I'm not getting involved either." Nathaniel also gives Soren his chips. "But I will deal."

So it's only Kingsley vs. Soren.

Next to me, Avian swears under his breath. "This will be interesting."

"What makes you say that?" I whisper.

"Those two…" He winces. "They don't like each other very much."

"Tch," Sheng says behind me, almost with amusement. "That's an understatement."

This really rocks my boat. It should be no surprise that not all the boys will get along with each other, that some personalities will clash and rub the wrong way, but watching it in action is such a stark awakening that this is a competition, and that the inherent rivalry that comes with it will overflow into malice. Maybe outright, judging by Avian's reaction.

I suspect both boys are reining it in for my sake. Soren's hard face is stoic as rock, and never softens in Kingsley's direction, but it's certainly not the coldest stare he could make. Kingsley, meanwhile, has taken on a new edge – no longer confident, but desperate.

He _has_ to win.

To everyone's surprise, the first round goes to Soren. Wild cheers raze the quiet as he takes his handful – and it's only that, a handful. Hardly worth celebrating, but the other boys like watching a streak being dethroned. Kingsley works his jaw, but he's not out. They go like this for a several games, both in a tug of war of winning and losing. Their piles are evenly matched.

In the next round, Kingsley suddenly announces, "Check," and it causes a ripple of murmurs. "You first, my friend."

Soren pushes in three chips – then another, fourth chip. Kingsley smiles, but it's barren of mirth, and matches the bet. It's so tense it's like the fate of the world rides on this match. Who do I even want to win? I like Kingsley a lot, but I do also love an unexpected underdog, and likewise the Selected have already chosen who to support, and I can't help but conform to the mass.

Nathaniel reveals the second card from the deck. Neither breaks focus as the showdown arrives.

Kingsley's grin is like a shark, which is simultaneously kind of scary, but also kind of hot. "How about we add an additional bet: if I win this game, you have to do my essay for JJ."

Ooooo. I'm not sure JJ, let alone Soren, would like that, but I'm no snake.

Soren sits back in his chair, pauses. I have a feeling he's already decided.

"Why would I agree to that?"

"We have an audience." Kingsley gestures to me. "Both of us would like to impress Her Highness. This makes the game more interesting, and the stakes higher than some chips that have no value."

Again, he takes his time answering. "If you win, I write your essay, then."

"Agreed."

"But if I win," he mutters it low, "you must bow to every single person you pass publically for a week."

I drop my mouth open. Oh my god.

Such a request is humiliating. Kingsley, bowing? He's the type more likely to want people to bow to him. He can refuse, of course, but Kingsley has his own pride to protect. He surely won't turn down the challenge if it makes it all the juicier when he wins.

The prospect catches Kingsley off-guard too, by the way his eyes round and he freezes solid for moments. Then he's laughing – laughing so hard tears gather at his eyelids.

"You know what? That's such a funny request that I'll agree to it. You'd better hope you win." Kingsley pushes all his chips into the centre. "All in."

Cheers rapture the room. Soren's mouth grinds but he flicks a glance over – at _me,_ of all people – and follows.

Kingsley whistles. "It's not too late to fold."

"I would've already folded if I'd wanted to."

"Well, I'm giving you another opportunity to consider it." He says this casually, like they're talking about buying ice cream at a fun fair. "After all, I'd hate to see you lose, Soren. If only because you won't get to see me bow."

"I think I'll manage."

"Reveal," Nathaniel says.

Kingsley flips his cards. Soren flips his cards.

The crowd goes nuts.

"Yo, that's a Straight Flush!"

"Does Soren win?"

"But Kingsley has a Royal Flush! That's the rarest combination in the game!"

Nathaniel cuts through the noise. "Kingsley wins."

Kingsley stands before us, arms open, laughing and basking in his victory with barely a glance at Soren, who is hiding his disappointment well. The Straight Flush only loses to the Royal Flush, so he would've lost no matter what, but shame washes over him like he did something to personally upset Fate, and now he's paying the price.

But it was such a good game that my stomach is still in knots. My feet take me to Soren and I rest a hand on his shoulder. "That was brilliant."

He barely flickers a glance in my direction. "Mmm." Then I realise it's not pity he wanted – it's not even victory. It's Kingsley's defeat. No matter what I do now, Soren won't cheer up because his worst enemy will be lording the win in his face. Worse, he'll will have to do his essay, which might as well be the written equivalent of licking his boots.

Only a few days in, and already the Selected have chosen their sides.

"Tough luck, Soren," Kingsley says, patting him on the back. "I look forward to having my essay complete before the next history lesson."

Soren doesn't reply, but stands, chair rattling, and exits swiftly out the parlour. I make it to the door by the time Sheng catches my arm.

"Let him go. He needs to be alone."

I shrug him off. "It's not fair to leave him disappointed like that."

Sheng doesn't stop me as I hurry to catch up to Soren. Since he's so tall he's already made it down a few hallways before I spot him, out of breath.

"Soren!"

He stops. Doesn't say a word until I come up next to him.

"Are you all right?"

"I'm fine." That cool expression has slid over his face again, shrouding the visible frustration from only moments ago. "You don't have to check up on me."

I know he doesn't mean it meanly, but his hard tone doesn't help. "I know you don't need babying, but I just wanted to remind you that it's not the end of the wold. It was a game. Nothing more."

"Perhaps."

 _Perhaps?_

"What do you mean by that?"

He sighs. "I only mean that in this competition, some may be willing to go extra lengths to win you over."

"That's what I want."

"I don't mean it in a good way."

Whoa. "You mean like… sabotaging fellow Selected?"

He shrugs. "It's too early in the competition to tell, but there are definitely a few I can see doing that."

He might as well say it because I know he's thinking it. Kingsley. He thinks Kingsley is capable of that. I bristle, both for the implication and what it means for me, who ultimately will make my decision based on how the Selected act.

"A little rivalry isn't guarantee of ill-play," I say carefully. "I'm not asking everyone to get along like one big happy family, but I would hope to expect better of gentlemen in this competition."

This time, he nods. "So do I, but I would advise you to keep your eyes open. Excuse me."

I watch him as he peels away. Soren is like a puzzle piece that doesn't quite fit in anywhere. I used to think him and Ansel similar, but whereas Ansel lets his head dictate his actions, Soren is driven by his heart. Maybe more than he wants.

Sabotage… is that a thing that will actually happen? Whilst I doubt Kingsley is willing to go that far, I don't know every boy well enough yet to make judgements for them. Once again, I'm struck how big this thing has become, how it has escaped my grasp and run amok in the halls.

It's only the beginning, but I resolve not to be blinded. I'm already way in over my head with the Resurgence. I won't let my Selection be the same.

* * *

It's the next day when I receive a message in my secret email inbox.

 _Hi Susanetta,_

 _The Second Round of Try-Outs are here! Join us once more for a more casual event this Thursday at Glendale Ice Rink beginning at 12pm. Bellona Strike will be there to narrow the pool… could you be on the team?_

My heart thunders at just the thought. Thursday is six days, plenty of time to cobble an excuse as to why I won't join anyone for lunch that day. These trials will be harder this time; it won't just be random assignments and play. It will be drills, teamwork, maybe even a little strategy. With all the bad eggs weeded out, only decent players remain.

I'll have my work cut out for me. I have to look good for Bellona Strike. Zelda and I both.

"Gail?"

The knock comes next. Omma's voice makes me jump out of my skin. I close the email and shove my phone under my pillow, before dusting myself off and piping an enthusiastic, "Come in!"

She strides in and immediately takes a seat on my bed next to me. If she notices my cagey expression, she doesn't say anything.

"I thought I'd give you more forewarning this time."

"For what?"

"Your next excursion."

Oh. Right.

"As much as the experience forced me to grow as a person, please no more debates."

She smirks. "Not a debate. More your style, this one. You remember Jane Weir?"

"The author? The one I wrote a foreword for a few months ago?"

"Right."

Also known as the Royal Biographer. Since the rebel assault, Jane Weir has chronicled my family's lives in several works. A few years ago, she even received an endorsement from Roy himself, as she often dug deep to get the real story and not something cherry-picked for entertainment.

"The foreword you wrote was for her latest work, _The Noble House of Schreave_. She's hosting a huge signing at New York."

"And you want me to go."

"I want you to support her, yes, and speak on the panel yourself." Her head cants. "Like last time, I was invited, and I was prepared to go this time as well, but I think you'd be much better suited to this than I am."

"Well, it's easier to stomach than a debate. How many Selected can I take?"

"Up to you, bearing in mind any you do will probably have to be on the panel as well."

Dominik will be a must, being an author himself. He'll be used to the environment, the questions and panels and eager fans. Who else? Maybe someone who can speak well and knows enough about our history?

History… like Ben?

Maybe he's not quite the right type of historian, but he must have some knowledge of recent history.

And if I have to bring one more as a random pick, then I guess I have a lot of choices.

"I'll think about that. When?"

"You fly Thursday afternoon."

My stomach drops. That's the try-out date.

I don't realise how much this hollows me out until I'm sitting there, eating the silence. All that excitement reading the email, imagining myself getting approval from Bellona Strike, getting accepted onto the team… it slips down an icy cliff into a freezing abyss.

That indescribable high that glided through me on the rink, as I scored, as Bellona congratulated us, so addictive that I'm willing to do it all again. It's trapped inside me, just wriggling to get free, and all I have to do is let it out.

And I can't do that if I don't go to the second round of try-outs.

"What time do we fly?"

Omma raises an eyebrow. "About four o'clock."

A smile emerges across my lips. The try-outs start at midday. That's four hours. Plenty of time to get there, do our thing, and then return for the flight.

It won't be the dead of night, and Naomi will be tailing me, as usual, but I bet I can find a workaround. I bet I can go to the try-outs _and_ make it for the flight.

All I need is a plan.

* * *

 **A/N:** Heyyyy everyone! I actually completely forgot how to play poker until I did the final edit of this chapter just now (so yes, even when I wrote the first draft it was abysmally wrong) so no one can dare argue that fanfiction isn't educational. Checkmate, Anne Rice!

What did you think of Kingsley and Valerian, and Soren? The impending hockey try-outs and the author talk? Who will be the third choice?!

I hope you all enjoyed it, and please leave a review to let me know what you thought. :D Next chapter will be in two weeks because I'm still writing 14 and hnnnng it's too close for comfort.

~ GWA

NTT: "I pity your Selected."


	13. Heads in the Game

Thursday morning, I packed two bags. The first is a suitcase for New York City – all my fancy clothes, make-up and shoes ready for an author talk. My second is a duffle for a hockey jersey, sports tape, and a wig for disguising myself at the second ice hockey try-outs.

Two very different bags, two very different places, and yet the thing they share is one very nosy lady's maid.

I shove the duffle under my bed when I think she isn't looking, but Aderyn has a hawk's gaze. There would be lasers shooting out of her eyes if she wasn't human. She raises an eyebrow and closes the door.

"What is that?"

"Nothing." If she suspects that I'm actually sneaking out soon, I'm toast. "Just some personal things."

She frowns. "Personal things? Your Highness, I have known you for two years. I've seen many of your personal affects. There's no need to hide them from me."

"Ah, but, these are extra, _extra_ personal, because… because these are love letters. From my Selected."

Aderyn cants her head. For a second, it's like she doesn't buy the lie, but her frown turns upside-down.

"Oh, how charming." She gestures for me to sit at the vanity table to run oil through my hair. "You know, my ex-boyfriend wrote me love letters occasionally."

"Oh, er, really?" I sit, though my eyes are focused on the mirror, where I can see the handle that protrudes from under the bed. "What did he write?"

"Lots of silly, sweet things. _You look beautiful today,_ _your eyes are like jewels,_ that sort of thing. Just the right words to make one mushy inside. I imagine those letters are much more thorough, though. To have them sending you love letters already, Your Highness? They must so very much adore you."

 _Adored_ is not the word I would use. I eliminated another handful of Selected during the week, and I think adoration is the last emotion any of them experienced. I only have twenty-four left now, and it's barely been two weeks.

"Well, if you could not look at them, or touch them even, I'd be grateful. They're… really personal."

"Of course." Aderyn dribbles oil onto her hands and rubs gently at the ends of my hair. "May I ask who sent you one?"

"Sheng."

I want to slam my head against the desk. Of course his name came up first.

"Oh, the stable hand?" She giggles. "How sweet."

"Yes, very sweet."

"You did visit the stables quite often. He must have developed a fancy to you before the Selection."

Can I die right here and now? I decide not to reply, and Aderyn makes no further attempt to pry a reaction from me. Thank goodness, because it's throwing off my focus for what I have to do.

After a few minutes of silence, Aderyn says, "The plane will be leaving at four sharp. We will have to make certain you're prepared before then." She makes a sideways glance at my gaping suitcase, clothes vacuum-packed within. "I will just go and iron your maxi."

"Actually, erm," I shuffle on the chair, "I was hoping you could make me a new dress."

Her hands stop. "Y-Your Highness, that would take me hours!"

 _But it will get you out of here, away from me._ "I know, but it's an author's signing _about_ the royals, and I don't want to look like I've spared any expense. I'm representing my family, you know?"

She shakes her head. "I'm sorry, but it's impossible—"

"I have a design ready to go." I peel open my draw and pull out said design, a bubbly, blue lace dress that is more cocktail than casual, but has enough intricacies that it will take a steady hand and at least three hours to complete. "Please? I know the tailors aren't busy today, I checked. You can rope a few into helping."

"I—" She takes the design sheet and roams her eyes over the dress. "Why didn't you ask them to start it?"

"I wanted your approval."

"You don't need my approval for anything."

"Yes, but it's a comfort. Do you like it? I made it myself."

Not a lie. The design idea was mine, but I had Zelda and the tailors hash out the real technicalities.

"It is lovely, but… complicated."

"Well, I'm nearly finished packing anyway." I stand and smile. "And I don't need your help with everything. I can make my way to lunch myself."

She sighs, the design crumbling in her hands. "All right, I can try. No promises about it being ready before take-off, so we might have to sacrifice some of the detail. Next time, please ask me with plenty of time beforehand."

She snatches her things and makes leave, pattering down the hallway like a fresh rain. Guilt surfs up my chest as I close the door; I know I've thrown her into this last-minute fabric bonanza just so she can leave me in peace for a few hours, but it's the only way to keep her occupied. If she's not here, and not likely to pop in, she won't see that I've disappeared.

And that I've taken the mysterious duffle bag with me.

I take it and leave my room. Naomi's eyes follow me as I do, and she gets off the wall.

"No, no," I say. "I'm only going to Zelda's for lunch. I'll be back before three."

"My job isn't to guard your door, Your Highness. It's to guard _you."_

"It's only Zelda. You really don't have to protect me there. Her guards will be there, too."

"Then I'll go with you and guard with them."

I have to resist a frustrated sigh. This rule about Naomi following me everywhere? So annoying. I hoist my smile and make my way to the Bezuidenhout-Leeuwenhoek quarters, and gratefully leave her and the other guards outside when Zelda mutters an excuse about not being disturbed and ushers me in.

"You got rid of Aderyn?"

"Yep. Dress idea worked."

"Hook, line, and a sinker."

I wince. "More like I struggled to pull the fish to the surface and nearly dropped the rod into the lake. I'm worried she might finish it early."

Zelda shrugs. "On a dress of that magnitude? Doubt it. Now let's get going or we'll be late."

We don't stop to smell the flowers. I slide through their cosy living area for her bedroom, and we bolt the door before quickly slipping on our disguises and make-up. No longer is Zelda the Zelda I know, but Linkle Vivas, with her thick blond locks and bright blue eyes. No longer am I Princess Gail, but Susanetta Vivas, hockey fanatic and aspiring professional with a bad haircut and questionable glasses.

My heart fills with adrenaline, fuelling my every movement as I climb out Zelda's window and into a thick array of green bushes. The prickles needle my sides, but Zelda elbows her way through until we're on the path set for the servant's wing. No one notices us in our servant's garb, blending like kale in a green smoothie as we stroll, then run, to the parking lot.

Only until we're outside the palace does Zelda speak again.

"Let's go over the plan."

"We get there, we play, we win, we leave?"

"… Well, yes, but in more depth." Her hands drum along the wheel. "With the speed we're going, we'll get there approximately twelve-twenty. Ten minutes to register, ten minutes to change, ten minutes to await to play."

"What will we be doing?"

"That's the problem, I don't know. Worst case scenario, it's a full-blown match, and we could be spending another eighty minutes, give or take five for long interruptions and fouls and substitutions. It's not likely, if the volume of attendees is so large that it wouldn't make logistical sense to play full games, but it's there."

But we planned for that. That's why we're going so early.

"We'll aim to get out two-twenty," Zelda says. "Which should give us another ten minutes to change and refresh before we head back out. We should be back by three."

"And that gives me an hour to pack before I leave."

Zelda nods. "I sent Rose a text to meet us early."

It's nearly twelve o'clock. I can't stop tapping my feet, all thoughts of palace life dissolving to make way for a spike of nerves at the pit of my stomach. What if last time was a fluke? What if I stumble and smack my head against the ice and Bellona Strike laughs me out of the rink?

I puff out a long breath. I can't afford to think like this. Like High School Musical taught me, I must get my head in the game.

When we're nearly there, Rose sends another text saying _Waiting outside!_ with a string of tangentially related emoji. Zelda runs the car into a space and barely stops to breathe before getting out, and I follow.

She takes my shoulders. "Okay, Susanetta?"

 _I must get my head in the game_.

"Okay, Linkle."

Rose is wringing her hands outside the double glass doors when she sees us. Relief spills across her features. Today, she's wearing dungarees that accentuate her lithe figure, the lean muscle in her legs.

"Oh, thank goodness. I thought I would be going in alone."

"Sorry we're so late," Zelda says, even though we're far from late, and we're definitely not sorry. "Susanetta took ages in the bathroom."

"I did not."

She only fixes me a look as Rose giggles. Guess I'm the butt of the joke today.

We herd inside, register, and jersey up. Before I know it, the rink expands in front of us, a smooth sheet that glistens in the afternoon light. There are players already on the rink that skirt through slaloms and orange cones, and Bellona is there too, pointing directions.

My legs go jelly instantly. It's drills. _I can do drills._

"Okay, erm," Rose turns to Zelda, "what's the plan this time?"

Zelda assesses the field of play, her eyes darting around to absorb every piece of information she can.

"Su, remember your timing. You need more than you think to make a sharp turn, especially through slaloms. Rose, watch your left. You favour your right." Then, she smirks. "And maybe remember your skate guards?"

Rose rubs the back of her neck. "I was nervous…"

"13, 14, 15! You're up!"

Air leaves my lungs, and I promptly have to force myself to take deep breaths. The linesman guides us to the group in play. Even in my guards and layers, these girls are much, much larger than I am – like tanks or tree trunks or the stack of blueprints in Cami's office. Naturally sport tends to favour bigger, taller people, and it squeezes the confidence from me like juice from a lemon.

"Welcome." I'm despaired Bellona only gives us a cursory nod, like she barely remembers us from last time. "Please join the end of the line here."

"Oh gosh, this is so, so nerve-wracking," Rose mutters. She's the same height as everyone else here – it's Zelda and I that barely make rank – but nonetheless the stick in her hands jitters so much she's churning ice.

"Chill," Zelda instructs softly, directing her attention to both of us. "Remember last time we were here? She loved us. We just have to remind her why."

"Okay, okay." Rose takes a deep breath and squeezes her eyes shut. " _I'm a superb goalkeeper, I'm a superb goalkeeper, I'm a superb goalkeeper…"_

That's a good idea. _Incredibly skilled, incredibly skilled…_ I repeat it in my head until it feels real, until my imposter syndrome fades.

"All right," Bellona's voice has taken on a commanding, booming quality, "I want to see some good pivots, ladies. Get to it!"

The line shoots off. Skating back and forth, we're like a quirky conga line, if that conga line could also mow you down in five seconds. I follow Zelda closely, making sure to watch my turns – if they're really as wide as she says, I need to keep an eye out or risk falling on my butt before Bellona even calls me on it.

The drills happen in a blur. We do the pivots, the slaloms, the fast-starts and puck juggles. Soon we're on to passing. Then it's marking. Bellona stops play once in a while to send someone off – someone home. Girls leave as girls join, and soon I don't even recognise the faces around me anymore. Not when half an hour ago we started with an entirely new bunch of people.

By fifty minutes, I'm growing in confidence. The only time Bellona sends us three off is for a twenty-minute break.

Rose downs a water bottle before taking a deep breath and panting, "Do you think she still likes us?"

"I think so," says Zelda, but she has that smile on her face that's less like a _think so_ and more like a _know so._

I wait until Rose goes to replace her helmet before I nudge Zelda aside. "We've already been here more an hour. How much longer do you think it'll be?"

"I can't be more than fifteen minutes," she insists. Not sure I believe her.

But there are drills upon drills, testing my stamina to breaking point. As more people arrive, we're split into smaller groups, and then split again for a game. Not a full game – but this one will last a twenty minute period, a third of an actual match. Suddenly I'm under another rock of pressure – not only do I have to ace this match, but now I also have to think about the time, and getting back before anyone spots that I'm gone.

It's like puncturing a bubble. This whole world seems surreal when I have royal life to go back to.

Rose gets put into goalkeeper position again, and Zelda and I are wings. There's no time to break the ice with the team (get it? Ice?), and we get shafted into the match before I can say _hockey stick._

The match begins, and our Captain steals the puck from the Blues in an instant. It's so impressive that I'm nearly frozen, but I skate along on the left lane through the defence towards the goal, mirroring Zelda on the other side.

"14, go forwards!" Captain shrills.

Zelda does. "Open!" Captain passes to her, and Zelda slides the puck along. A Blue approaches— slices across.

Zelda loses the puck. She makes a noise of surprise as the Blue shoots away in the other direction. I don't dwell, but pivot sharply to retrieve the puck again before it hits Rose. The opposing wing twirls around me like ribbon, hard to shake, harder to get ahead to intercept.

The wings pass the puck between each other. Zelda tries to cut through the middle and nearly topples when they unceremoniously brush past her. They shoot, the puck screaming down the rink—

Rose slams her stick down, the puck rebounding off the toe and out of the field of play.

Not a goal. Good.

Zelda comes to my side at the pause. "I screwed that up."

"Come on, head the advice of our favourite television musical."

"Yeah, you're right." She knocks on her helmet. "Get my head in the game."

The puck bounces between the two teams like a tennis ball. Every time, the Blues get dangerously close to scoring – but Rose is a shield, her stick a sword. She is iron, I can see it forging in her eyes. She passes to me so ferociously I nearly miss, but get a hold and scrabble forwards.

Zelda is open, but her marker is a foot behind her, and catching fast. I pass to the captain instead, who zips through the opposing captain. _Score, score!_ I think desperately.

"I'm open!" yells Zelda. As Captain and the left defence battle for the puck, Zelda takes the puck and goes for the shot. It completely misses, but the goalie dug for it anyway and the puck bounces off the toe of the stick, leaving the right side open— but Zelda soars passed the opportunity and slams into the sideboards.

"Ze— Linkle!" I zoom forwards. Zelda shakes her head vigorously, but her eyes are unfocused. "Are you okay?"

"Dizzy," she replies.

"You overshot that by miles," the captain snaps. "You could've scored from the rebound."

She doesn't give us the chance to reply, returning to the field. Zelda grumbles something inaudible and lumbers back, and I just have to wonder why she overshot that. Why she was so sure her first shot would work.

"14." A voice cuts through just as we're about to start again. It's Bellona, calling Zelda's number. "Change to defence with 42."

I exchange a glance with Zelda. Okay. Not the worst. Her offensive play has been… erratic today. Zelda fixes me a hard look before she swaps her position with 42.

"Begin!"

It's strange without Zelda as my other wing, but I make do – this defence-turned-offence player is decent enough that she catches the passes and spits them back to me at the right moment. I score a goal, which sends a blast of euphoria through me, but it's not enough to overwhelm the feeling of worry for Zelda.

A Blue loom towards the goal again. I surge forwards to meet, to try to intercept, but they pass down the field and into defence territory. My heart blunders in my chest watching Zelda tackle players head on, sticks banging and mangling. She loses the puck from behind her, spinning and nearly losing balance, but the Blues shoot forwards – into the goal it goes, right through Rose's legs.

Zelda gawps. Rose looks like she's just accidentally punched Bellona in the face.

"14," Bellona announces. "Swap for goalie position."

Despair laces Zelda's face, but she does well to hide it as she swaps gear with Rose. "Why does she keep moving me?"

I shrug. "Maybe she thinks you're flexible?"

But Zelda grimaces, like she thinks she's anything but.

"It's my fault. I let the goal in," says Rose.

"Hey, the game's not over yet." But the reminder seems to fall on closed ears.

The game restarts with a face-off. The opponents steal the puck from the Captain and shoot towards the goal. I cut through, plucking it from beneath their toes and skid free.

"Rose's open!" Zelda yells, but I can barely hear her from that side of the field.

Indeed, Rose is open. I pass— she slashes down the field to check it. The other team are lunging towards her like angry lions, and I zap forwards to stay open, away from my marker.

Rose passes it to another girl. "Shoot!" I yell. But my voice gets lost in the churning ice, and after a tussle a Blue emerges with the puck, spinning forwards in a graceful twist. I curse and push forwards— it's nearing our goal— _Zelda_ —

Zelda crouches. The puck whizzes towards her, but it slides right through the gap in her defence. Blue scores.

They cheer, but the only thing that hits me is a torrent of pity. Beneath the helmet, her devastation is obvious.

Bellona holds the match.

"13, back in goalie position." Then she looks at Zelda. "14, benched."

"No, please—" Zelda begins.

" _Bench,_ 14."

 _Bench._ The other players she told to just go off the ice. I clasp the glimmer of hope even though Zelda cannot see it, and she stormily skates to the side to hand her gear back to Rose and wait in the substitution area.

Okay. So. Just me now.

This is so much worse than Zelda in defence. It's like ripping off an arm and leg. Half of me is missing. I always talk, play, think, _feel_ ice hockey with Zelda. It's not something I've done alone ever, and now I have to.

Another girl comes on to replace Zelda and play resumes like nothing has changed, but it ends after two minutes. The twenty-minute game is over.

"Thank you, ladies," Bellona calls. "If you could all wait on the bench, I will be with you shortly."

I rush back to meet Zelda. She's already stripped herself of her gear, head in hands as she stares gloomily onto the rink, where the linesmen are flooding the ice for the next group.

"I'm done for, aren't I?"

I don't want to say it. _Please,_ I think. _Please don't let Zelda's hockey career end without me._

"Your face says everything," she snorts, sitting up. "God, what was I thinking with that goal shot? She was so open she was practically begging me to score!" She groans, pulls on her wig. "Ugh. I was getting cocky, wasn't I?"

"Yep," calls Captain as she breezes passed. "Yes, you were."

I feel the second hand embarrassment almost as strongly as Zelda sinks into her seat. I'd like to have a shower, really, so I'm not a sweaty pile of goo in front of my idol, but I think Zelda needs to company more than anything else. By the time everyone is seated, Bellona is skating over.

"You five," she points to five girls, "thank you for your time. I'm afraid you haven't made it."

The glimmer of hope grows. If Zelda had been axed, she would've been sent home with them, right? I sit straighter and don't fail to notice the way Zelda sits straighter too.

"14," she starts again, meeting Zelda's gaze. "You are also off the team. However, I would like for you to stay behind to discuss something."

Zelda stays rigidly emotionless. "Sure, yes. Okay."

"And the rest of you, congratulations." She looks each of us in the eye. "You are through to the final round."

Final. _Final?_

This _wasn't_ the end?

The two emotions clash like freshwater and seawater. One is jubilation, the other is dread. I have one more hurdle to overcome, one more obstacle in the way, before I reach the finish line, before I can say I'm in a team, I'm a hockey player.

 _What am I thinking?_ I feel it to my bones. There _is_ a finish line, there _is_ something at the end of the tunnel that I'm striving towards.

This was supposed to be fun. Not envelop my whole waking life.

"Remind me of your name?"

Bellona's voice punctures my thoughts, but she's not looking at me. As the rest of the team files out, Zelda stands.

"Linkle Vivas, ma'am."

"Ah, yes." She nods, then gestures down the hall. "Come. I'd like to speak in private."

Zelda passes me a terrified glance as they turn the corner. Rose comes to sit next to me.

"Do you think she'll be okay?"

I shrug. I really have no idea what Bellona wants with her.

It's a tense ten minutes. I say goodbye to Rose and promise to update her before taking a quick shower. When I come back out refreshed, Zelda is waiting for me on the bench, twiddling her thumbs, with Bellona nowhere to be seen.

"Well?" My voice comes out like a police interrogator. "What happened? Did she put you on the team?"

She shakes her head, and her blank expression breaks out into a grin. "Something better." She points to the box where Bellona and co. observed us during the first try-outs. "She… she wants me to sit with her. In the box. To… talk and discuss play and strategy."

"Wow, Zelda!" I clutch her by the shoulders. "That's amazing!"

"I—I know."

Her smile wanes, so mine mirrors.

"Why do you look so down about it?"

"I don't know. I guess… I guess I'm sad that I won't be with you. Getting the glory."

"What are you talking about? Managers get as much attention as the players. They co-ordinate everything, after all. If you're helping her run the team, then you're basically becoming a manager in your own right."

"That's exactly what she said. Bellona wanted to… to develop my potential. Most managers were once players, but… she thinks I'd do better on the lines than on the ice."

Now I understand. For someone like Zelda, who revels in attention negative or not, being shunted to the bench has to gash like a big, evil knife. Playing, as she says, gets you more glory than the managerial position, and that glory cost her vital marks today. But strategist is nothing to scoff at, and it's definitely not any easier.

I sit by her side and slap her arm. "Come on, she's saying you have a big brain that is wasted on the ice. You're going to help the team – our team. That's great."

" _Our_ team, eh?" She chuckles darkly. "Now _that's_ cocky for someone who hasn't passed the final trial yet."

"I-I meant it facetiously."

"Sure." Zelda stands, stretches her arms and strips her guards. "It's not official. I'll be joining her in the final round and giving her my critical analysis of everything. I guess we'll have to see how it goes."

I've never known Zelda to _not_ be confident in her own abilities, but this has a lot riding on her. After all, it's only our biggest idol that's asked her to do this. At least in hockey, you can blame instincts and initiative and ego on mistakes, but analysing a match and evaluating play has to be done with care.

But I believe in Zelda. I know she can do it.

"You'll be great. Once we come back refreshed, Rose and I will destroy the competition, and you will be so blindingly good Bellona will just _have_ to keep you too."

She scoffs. "You sound kind of scary, did you know that?"

I flick a tiny lock of black hair. "I can be very scary when I want."

"I pity your Selected."

Her face drops at the same time as mine does.

"The flight! Oh my god, what time is it?"

Zelda checks her phone – then winces. "Two-fifty."

I grab my bag, then her arm, and sprint as fast as I can. How can I have completely forgotten that I had to be back before the flight?

Oh, but I know exactly how I forgot. It's surreal, that this is my life now – one half princess, the other half hockey player. The two sides do not merge in my head, like oil and water.

Zelda races along the interstate to the palace, skipping through a few red lights in the process. At three-fifteen, the car slides haphazardly into a space, and we scramble out, snatching wigs and smearing make-up. Zelda takes another minute to pop out her coloured contacts.

"Quick!"

We throw ourselves through her open window, and relief takes me over when I roll inside. Zelda tumbles in after me.

"Phew, we made it!" She shoves me towards the door. "Go. Go!"

"I'll see you in a few days!"

I unlock the door. Open it wide.

Aderyn stands there with her arms crossed.

"You'd better tell me, _right now,"_ she emphasises, "where you've been, or… or I'm going straight to tell His Majesty!"

* * *

 **A/N:** 'Ello everyone! Been a while, so thanks for being patient, and I hope you enjoyed this chapter. No boys in this one, but not to worry - there are some fun things in store for them coming up ;)

*le gasp* How can Gail and Zelda worm their way out of this one?! Find out next time... huehue...

~ GWA

NTT: "I will happily go on a date with you, Your Highness."


	14. In And Out of Answers

"It's not what it looks like!"

I'm not really sure why I said that. It's totally what it looks like.

Aderyn fixes me a horrible look, one that stares deep into my soul.

"I have been standing outside this door for forty minutes, and I didn't hear not a peep of a sound until thirty seconds ago, when you and Zelda came clambering back inside like elephants in a china shop, and you think I don't know what this _looks_ like?"

"Erm," says Zelda. "It's actually _bull_ in a china shop—"

"Do you know how worried I've been? How bad I've felt thinking you might be lost, or hurt, or captured?" She huffs, cheeks reddening like gigantic lit bombs. "So now you two better explain to me where you've been or else I'll go to His Majesty right away!"

Which is the last thing I want. I snatch her arm and drag her inside, locking the door before she can even protest.

"Okay, yes, we were sneaking out—"

"I've clocked that!" she snaps. "If you bothered to check your phone you'd see I sent you a million texts!"

I was too busy with hockey and shucking my disguise to even think about my cell. I fish it from my bag and glance – the first text from Aderyn is a harmless question about the dress I sent her to make, and then the onslaught of worried messages at my silence after.

It's not quite a million, but even Zelda will forgive the hyperbole.

"If you were so worried," Zelda says smoothly, "why didn't you go to Naomi, or, hell, the king man himself?"

"Because I knew you were sneaking out, and I'm not a snitch."

I don't think she means it to be comforting, but it is. It's nice to know even when I mess up, I can trust Aderyn to keep it to herself. Sometimes I forget she's only a few years older than, with all the wisdom she carries on her shoulders.

But am I ready to add to the burden with my hockey antics? She knows as much as anyone in the palace does how much I love it, but to let her in on this secret could potentially see my hockey career destroyed before I even set foot on the ice.

My heart wins out. No, not yet. I cannot tell her for now.

Soon, maybe. But not now.

"I was meeting one of my Selected for a date," I blurt.

Zelda turns painstakingly slowly to face me.

Even Aderyn has the good sense to look confused. "You mean… you put me through all this misery just to meet one of your Selected? Where did you go? You know the guards have contingent plans for you going on dates."

"And have them following me everywhere?" I retort. "No. We needed privacy, or what's the point?"

" _Your safety_ is the point! You didn't even take Naomi!"

Judging by how far this conversation has come, Naomi mustn't know I snuck out either. _This is a good thing,_ I think. Because Naomi wouldn't hesitate to snitch. She is _paid_ to snitch.

"We went out in disguise to an, er, In-N-Out. Zelda paid cash, kept watch over us the whole time. Nothing bad happened, I swear."

" _In-N-Out?"_ Aderyn splutters. "You are the princess of the country and your Selected took you to an _In-N-Out?"_

Maybe I should have gone higher scale. "I-I like In-N-Out…"

"How did _you_ get into my house?" Zelda says, attempting another turn of the conversation.

"I have a key. Captain Durante gave it to me for emergencies. I deemed this an emergency."

Zelda goes rigid. "He's not here, is he? Or Rudy?"

"No. They're still busy with their duties." Her glare fixes onto me. "Is this what those love letters from Sheng were about? A secretive rendezvous at an In-N-Out?"

I go bright red. Oh god. I can only imagine what Aderyn thinks was written on there that supposedly won me over enough to commit subterfuge. _Gail, your eyes are a beautiful brown… like the seeded buns of a succulent beef burger._

Now Sheng is implicated too. Hopefully this won't get back to him. Ever.

"I'm sorry I scared you, Aderyn. I promise, I'm fine. A little bloated, maybe, from the… er, burger."

Funny. Now I really could use a burger.

Her glare narrows – it pierces like a needle to a balloon – before at once dropping into a sigh.

"You know, one time when I was dating my ex-boyfriend, he went to a local bar to watch the football. I didn't hear from him until eight hours later, at five o'clock in the morning, after he'd sobered up naked in Argentina."

"That's charming," says Zelda.

"I was so worried for him! I nearly called the police!" She scowls. "That could have been you tonight. I had no idea what to do, because you didn't tell me or anyone where you were or what you were doing."

"I mean, if it's any consolation, I've been completely sober _and_ fully clothed this entire evening." The end comes up like a question, because that is the very bare minimum of consolations.

Aderyn rubs her temples. "Just don't do it again please. Or else I really will have to get other people involved." It's a furtive warning dressed in exasperation, but I hear the message loud and clear. "Promise me that?"

"I promise," I lie.

"Good." She sighs. "Make sure next time you go somewhere much nicer and with much better protection. Not this In-N-Out nonsense. Now, if you don't hurry, you're going to be very late to this flight to New York."

* * *

I am very late to this flight to New York.

Despite being who I am, the limo to the airport nearly leaves without me, and it's a mad dash to fling my bags at attendants to pack in the trunk and then lunge into the backseat before the driver takes off.

"Phew, made it," I sigh, sinking into the limo chair.

"Oh good. I was worried I'd have to stall the author panel with germ facts."

Silas sits back opposite me, wryly taking in my dishevelled appearance. It's unfair, because whilst I look like I don't care, he looks like he cares without effort, all shirt untucked and hair messy. As my random pick, it's him I will be keeping my eye on this event, to see how he handles the spotlight, the attention, the waves of adoring fans pressuring you to keep your image.

"I think that would make it hilarious." Next to him, Ben grins. "Tell the whole audience that the mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell."

Dominik pulls my seatbelt free and offers it to me. "Why were you so late?"

I snap the belt into the buckle just as the car sets off. I might have a private plane, but there's a schedule even I have to adhere to. Security is the main stickler, but there's also the fact that since I don't want to and wouldn't want to be a butt to working class citizens that I go where and when I say I'll go. Somehow I managed to clean myself up and finish packing in the final ticking hours.

"I had to pack."

"Your whole wardrobe?" says Silas.

"A girl needs her accessories," I retort, adjusting my position.

There's still a rush of adrenaline in my body from the terror and joy and all the emotions in between, and it jitters down my leg. It makes the journey to the airport, and then on the plane, so much more overwhelming than it needs to be, with every touch making me jump and every noise raising the hairs on my neck.

I can't stop thinking about the next try-outs, even though I know I should be focusing on this author talk. The first was a small game, the second was drills and a twenty-minute period. What will the finals be like? What will I have to do?

And what will Zelda be doing, when she's standing with Bellona to give her thoughts? Without her by my side, I'll only have Rose, and though she's friendly and I like her, I barely even know her. We're not teammates in the sense that we are acquaintances.

I'm still deep in my thoughts as we get to the airport and board the plane. Even as the plane takes off, my mind runs through a hundred different scenarios, involving a hundred different tasks. In all of them though, there's only two ways the try-outs will end: in a win, or in defeat.

"Have you read the book?"

Dominik's voice cuts through my thoughts. In my reclined chair, I unclench the seat rest and unbuckle the seatbelt, if only to give my hands something to do.

"Oh, no. I haven't." I shrug. "Why would I? It's my family history. I lived it."

Dominik nods. "That's true."

Ben and Silas are having drinks at the minibar. Unlike the last flight, this one is larger and spans about a quarter the length of a football field. There's a comfy lounge with a TV set and video game consoles, and there's also a back private room with a small study. Even a bedroom for a quick nap. Out back is another section for Naomi and the guards to rest.

Dominik sits opposite me. He hasn't left my side since the limo.

"You seem really on edge. Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," I say, and stand. I need to get my mind off hockey and into princess mode, so I wander over to Silas and Ben, who are nursing some colourful, fruity cocktails.

"Your Highness, I have to know," Silas says, turning to face me. "Why did you choose me to go with you on this trip?"

In truth, it wasn't just a name-in-hat process. My future prince must be favoured by the people as much as me, and Silas, with all his dry wit and humour, has yet to prove he can win the adoration of others simply by existing. Both Ben and Dominik are already sweet enough that I know they can, but Silas is a mystery.

There are a lot of boys like that right now. Mysteries in human form.

I sit on the barstool next to him. "I want to get to know you better."

He nods, at once looking like the moment has sobered him. "What do you want to know?"

"Erm, well." The question has caught me off-guard. "How about your heritage?"

"I mean, I'm a very pale Illéan, if that's what you mean." He gestures to himself. "I could be out in the sunlight for five seconds and burn."

Ben smirks. "Ah, white people problems."

"Amen to that," says Dominik, and they high five. Dominik takes the seat next to me. He's like my shadow.

"I actually have German and Jewish ancestry. Somewhere." Silas waves his hand vaguely. "They're probably turning in their graves for how little I know about them."

"Hey, I relate," says Ben. "I don't know anything about my dad's side."

Dominik winces. "I guess you and I are the same then, Your Highness. I can trace my family tree back generations."

I've never really thought about how strange it must be to not know who came before. Being royal, my family history is everyone's knowledge. I can't imagine not knowing who I was related to, what they did in the past.

Though I guess that knowing my family history also brings on a ton of ancestral guilt that I'll take to my grave.

Silas shrugs. "Eh. I live in the now." He drains his cocktail. "This tastes really good."

"No kidding," I say, not failing to notice the abrupt subject change. "What is it?"

"It's called Sex on the Beach."

My cheeks grow warm. "Oh."

"Mine's called Pornstar!" Ben chimes with a bashful grin. "It's a martini."

Dominik waves over the bartender. "Can I get the Leg Spreader please?"

I go so red I look like a cayenne pepper. Silas and Ben are already chuckling, probably more from the booze than my reaction.

"Are there only cocktails on the menu?"

"Apparently." Ben shrugs. "The bartender said it was because the king likes his cocktails."

I always thought he was more a vodka guy, but I guess you learn something new every day. At least the dirty names don't surprise me.

"And for you, Your Highness?" asks the bartender.

"I'll just have a water."

"Not even a little drink?" Silas says. It's pretty clear they all intend to get heady before tomorrow.

"Okay," I cave. "I'll have a Woo Woo." Which was the least dirty item on the menu.

Drinks are ordered and as the flight goes on, I forget my worries and strife. I forget that I have a huge public appearance tomorrow and that I have to be on my best behaviour. I forget that I must masquerade under an alias to become the hockey player I've always wanted to be. I forget I have a rebel revolution to quell.

We play cards, the boys showing me how to play poker properly (and no one strips). We joke, we laugh, and when the flight touches down at nine in the evening we go to the hotel in Brooklyn and I sleep like I haven't slept in days.

By the time the morning sun peeks through the gaps in the skyscrapers, I'm the opposite of ready for an author talk. Groggy from jet lag, far away from home, not sure what will be asked of me during the panel. Still, I do like being glitzed and glammed by the make-up team and Aderyn, who primp my hair and brush away the imperfections of my face, many that there are in my sleepy state.

"There's a big bruise on your arm," says one girl, who gingerly tends to my elbow with aloe vera. "We may have to put you in sleeves."

"Oh my." Aderyn inspects it. "How _ever_ did you get that, Your Highness?"

I smile and shrug through the thinly-veiled disapproval. Aderyn knows I got it sneaking out. She just doesn't know exactly that I got it when a player on the Blue team crashed into my side when trying to steal the puck. Through the elbow pads and all.

There are a myriad of small bruises like that all over me, so we switch to a dress with long, gauzy sleeves. Without warning I'm shepherded to the green room – the waiting room – which is mostly bare except for table, chairs, and a coffee machine. Book posters decorate the walls. Silas is the only one ready – the other two, and Jane, aren't here.

"You look nice," Silas contributes, standing when I come in.

I can't help but laugh. "Of all the descriptors to choose, and you picked _nice."_

"All right, I take it back. You look."

"Hah, hah."

When I sit next to him, he eases into his default position: leaning back, posture languid, hands spread-eagle over his thigh. No wonder he was done so fast; except a clothing swap, there's barely a change to him. His suit is starched and stiff, but everything else about him is his trademark casualness.

Nerves simmer beneath my skin. I wrote the foreword to this book, that much is true, and I obviously lived many of the experiences within the pages, but not actually _reading_ the book makes me feel unequipped to talk about it. Kind of like an imposter.

"I, er." Silas rubs the back of his neck. "I wanted to ask… why me? For real?"

"Huh?"

"I know you want to get to know me better, but… you want to get to know _everyone_ better. Why did you see this author talk and think, _wow, Silas would be great for this_?"

"First of all," I say haughtily, "I don't sound like that."

He merely makes a face, and I guess that answers that, even though I wasn't asking.

"Second of all…" I pause. "It's out of your comfort zone, right?"

He takes a moment to ponder before nodding. "Waaaay."

"Exactly. Being part of the royal family is like being constantly tested, constantly outside your comfort zone. Everyone's watching you, always."

"Great."

"All right, that was a hyperbole, but it _is_ pretty constant. From what I know about you…" I scrunch my nose, "you're not someone who wants to be the centre of attention. You like chilling at the side of the room. Even as a Selected, you have to get used to the idea of everyone knowing who you are and what you do, so I guess this is as much practice as it is a look for me to see how well you adjust to the spotlight."

After pursing his lips, he nods. "For someone who doesn't know me very well, you pretty much nailed me there."

I flush. "I pay attention."

"So you do." He smiles. "Then I'll do my best to _adjust."_

Ben comes in at that moment. He's wincing. "Dominik's still getting ready. I don't know if we're going to start on time."

"Why's he taking so long?"

"He keeps fixing his hair."

A huge laugh booms from the door, just behind Ben. "Well, one does have to be concerned for one's appearance, no?"

"Jane!" I cheer, standing up to greet her.

She mooches insides in dress so long it trails on the ground. I have to look up to see her bright, pale face, red lips spread into a grin. "Princess Gail, and your lovely Selected Ben and Silas. It is an honour to see you all. I'm so glad you could join me for the book launch."

Most authors I know of are awkward introverts; Jane lives for the spotlight. She's more supermodel than anything.

"It's wonderful to be here," I say.

She kisses both my cheeks. "Thank you so much for the foreword, too. I'm so glad you and your boys are moderating the panel today."

Moderating?

She reads my face. "You… do have questions prepared, don't you?"

I was supposed to prepare _questions?_

"Don't worry," Ben chalks up. "We can improvise."

Suddenly I'm sweating in areas I didn't think I could sweat. How can we improvise without having read the book?

In worse timing, Dominik enters the room, still fiddling with his parting. "I'm ready, I'm ready. When do we start?"

We're ushered down several close-fit corridors until I can hear the boom of the crowd, cheering and clapping as a bookseller introduces the event. The sound gets louder and louder until it ensconces me, right at the stage wings. I peer through.

The proscenium is brightly lit, with four armchairs and a glass of water each on four side tables. The book, _The Noble House of Schreave,_ is on a stand with a huge poster of the book's cover behind.

And every seat in the auditorium is filled.

Oh great. No mistakes today then.

Jane claps. "How exciting!"

"Are you ready, everyone, Your Highness?" says the stage runner. I gulp and nod mutely.

So the bookseller calls, "Please join me in welcoming Sir Silas Braxton, Sir Benedict Santiago, Sir Dominik Giles, Her Royal Highness, Princess Gail, and of course, the author of _The Noble House of Schreave_ herself, Jane Weir!"

The crowd roars as we enter the spotlight. Immediately my smile is up, my hand is waving, and my stride is confidently bouncy. Inside my insides are mush, because I like being prepared and I have _nothing_ prepared, but at least on the outside, I'm composed. The boys follow suit and sit with me, Jane on the lone armchair facing us, and we take our microphones.

When the clapping dies down, Jane speaks. "Hello, everyone. It's such a huge honour to be here with you, especially with our esteemed guests today, Princess Gail and three of her fine Selected gentlemen, Silas, Benedict and Dominik."

"It's an honour to be here," I say cheerily. I make the mistake of looking into the crowd – so many faces, _expectant_ faces, that I nearly forget what I'm going to say next. "I look forward to talking about this book with you."

"So we all are!" Jane pipes.

"Let's dive in, shall we?" Ben says, surprising me with how easy he makes it look. "First of all, what made you want to become a royal biographer?"

The back-and-forth conversation couldn't be any more natural. Ben and Dominik make it look so easy – it makes me think maybe _they_ prepared questions beforehand. With their lines of work, as a historian and an author, they'd already have many generic things to ask that work well in any setting. Ben asks the history questions, Dominik the writing questions, and I sit and nod and input only the occasional quip. I'm not even needed; they could run this thing themselves.

Silas is the same – seemingly unnecessary for this talk. Was it a bad choice to pick him for it? His posture is rigid and stiff for most of the panel. That is, until he makes an off-handed quip about his love of germs in his 'upcoming' memoir called _The Ignoble House of Braxton._ It gets a hearty laugh from us and the audience, and, pleased with himself, he starts to relax, talk more.

Suddenly I'm glad he's here. He doesn't intimidate me with how good he is in front of people.

"We're now going to open the panel to audience questions," the bookseller says. The hour went fast. "If you have a question, please raise your hand, pose your question to our booksellers in the crowd who will give you the A-Okay if it's appropriate, and they'll hand you a microphone."

"Oh, yes, don't be shy!" Jane pipes. "We're happy to take questions on anything. Me, the book, the Selection even!"

My chest coils. I survived not having any questions prepared. Now I have to survive people asking me questions without preparation?

I glance at the boys. Either none of them are bothered, or they're too good at hiding it.

"Yes, the front row," Jane says.

In the darkness of the audience, I make out a small, old lady with a big smile on her face. "Good evening to you all. I wanted to ask how you balance your professional life with your personal life."

 _I don't,_ I think.

"I always take time for myself and my hobbies," Ben starts, nodding. "I love my job, but I couldn't do it 24/7, so I make sure to read or watch movies or draw in my downtime. Things I enjoy outside of work." His eyes twinkle. "It's perfectly balanced, as all things should be."

Some people from the audience groan. I assume he's made some sort of reference, but I don't know what it is.

"I used to work from home, so it was hard finding that balance," says Dominik. "Now it's more a battle finding time to write _and_ participate in the Selection."

"What about you, Your Highness?" Jane asks.

"Oh, well, my professional and personal life are… sort of the same, most of the time." I twiddle my thumbs. "Being in the public eye, I'm not afforded as much privacy as most people. Everyone knows me. Even my love life has become television! But I choose that for myself." Suddenly self-conscious, I turn to Silas.

He scoffs. "That was a deep, meaningful answer, whereas all I can say is, I can't study germs in the palace."

Jane laughs. "I imagine that would be the most difficult of all of them!" She flicks a hand back to the audience. "Next question, please!"

Questions pour in from every manner of person, to hardcore book fans to history nerds (Ben high-fives one of them) to Selection enthusiasts that barrage me and the boys with a number of questions wholly unrelated to _The Noble House of Schreave,_ besides the fact that I am a Schreave.

"Do you have any favourites yet? Of your Selected?"

The question takes me by surprise. I look at my Selected – and immediately wish I didn't, because they're giving me that _I want to know it too_ look. Though Silas tries to dress it under some devil-may-care attitude, his eyes flicker to mine.

"No, not yet," I say. "It's still early days. I'm getting to know them all slowly. I've only been on a few dates."

"Have you been on any with these gentlemen?" Jane wiggles her eyebrows.

"No. I was hoping to get to know them better first."

"I will happily go on a date with you, Your Highness," Dominik says in a small voice that echoes through the auditorium's speakers. The crowd coos. I go red.

"O-Oh, well… okay." It sounds so bad when I say it, but the crowd's cooing gets explosive.

"What cuties!" Jane gushes. "We'll have another question, before Her Highness implodes!"

I think that's the worst I'll get, but no.

"Do you plan to eliminate more of them soon?" comes another question, which builds the sweat in the small of my back.

"I eliminate when I feel like it. I'm not sticking to a schedule."

"What are you looking for in your Selected? What traits are you looking for in your One?"

"A good sense of humour, charming, sweet, a real gentleman." I decide not to mention abs.

"Is the queen helping you with date ideas?"

"Cami or my mom? Not so much for either of them, but it's early days. I'm sure they'd be happy to help me."

"Why did a Selection appeal to you after what happened with the king's?"

Is this Jane's book launch, or my interrogation?

This one leaves me speechless for a moment. "What happened was horrible, but I don't think it should prevent me from forging my own path to find love. After all, despite everything, Roy still found Cami, and they adore each other to this day. Besides that, a Selection looks like, and is, a lot of fun."

"All right, how about some more questions for the gentlemen here?" Jane deftly redirects attention to them, giving me a moment to breathe. "Yes, you in the fourth row."

A younger girl adjusts her glasses and asks, "Have any of you dated before Princess Gail?"

That is _so_ not the questions I wanted. The boys shift – Dominik makes a face like he wants to melt into the ground and. But Jane doesn't wave the question away – it must be all right, in her eyes, to expose them for the whole world to see.

Bravely, Ben clears his throat. "Yeah, once or twice." I think he'll elaborate, but his mouth promptly shuts, and there's a silence that makes me think there's more to the story.

"I've never dated anyone before." Silas says this with a shrug, but it's the whispers that break out afterwards that jar him. "I don't know. Never had the time."

All eyes turn to Dominik. He gulps.

"Do you want me to list all of my previous girlfriends' names?"

"List?" Jane echoes. "Goodness. How many people are you referring to, here?"

Dominik takes a moment to count on his fingers – I'd laugh for how long he does it if it didn't reflect on me. "Fifteen."

I nearly choke. He's twenty years old! How could he have had so many girlfriends in that time?

"Are you including girls you _date"_ – Ben holds up air quotes – "when you're, like, ten, and by date I mean, _hold hands once?"_

"… In that case, fourteen. Or was it thirteen?" He looks at me, shaking his head. "I-I'm a romantic. I can't help it."

A romantic, or desperate?

"When was the last time you had an official girlfriend?" I ask.

"About two months ago."

Which was… about when I announced the Selection. How am I supposed to know that he wouldn't get bored of me when he's got bored with fourteen other girls? I can give him the benefit of the doubt, sure, and say they all broke up with him, but then the common denominator is still _Dominik._ What cause would they have, all of them, to break up with him?

Silas pulls at his collar. What a mood.

Unsure what to make of this development, I say, "Next question!"

The crowd is clearly not ready to move on, latching onto this information with horrified glee, and yet I'm saved by a woman in the crowd with a lilting accent. "Gentlemen, what is your relationship with Queen Camilla? Has she offered you any advice for how to proceed in the Selection? How to win the heart of Princess Gail?"

Ben sits up – a subtle motion that draws attention away from everyone else. "The queen has been very kind to us, of course, and so far she's visited us a few times in the Men's Parlour. She likes to make small talk with us and give advice, but she never stays for very long."

"She always insists that we _be ourselves,"_ Silas says. "I said to the queen, I guess if Princess Gail likes hipsters with overgrown hair, she'll like me."

I giggle at that. Another question comes flying our way.

"Similar question! Have any of you interacted with the king himself, and what does he think of your Selection so far?"

"He's… protective," Silas offers. "It's obvious he cares about Princess Gail a lot."

It's a nice way of saying he pokes around too much, I guess.

"What?" Ben turns to him in alarm. "Aren't you terrified of him?"

"You're terrified of Roy?" I laugh.

"Are you kidding? The man's an absolute unit. I feel like I shrink to the size of a quarter whenever he's around." He pauses. "He's watching this, isn't he?"

"Probably right now." I wave at a camera. "Hi Roy!"

"You're screeeewed," says Silas, snickering.

Ben mutters, "Hecky hecky I crave deathy."

"We have time for two more questions," says Jane. "Make them count!"

And so the crowd does… but not asking anything about the actual book. "Who is Prince Tay's favourite Selected so far?" comes the first; I make room in my heart to forgive the subject.

"I'm not really sure. He's scared of all of them. Well, except Kingsley."

"So that makes Sir Obasanjo his favourite, then?" ask Jane.

"Not so sure about favourite," I say, "but he's definitely one he tolerates the most at the moment, and that's definitely a compliment." I turn to the boys. "Has he ever been to the Men's Parlour by himself?"

"Queen Ji-Yu brought him inside once," says Ben. "He, er, hid behind her the entire time."

I'd coo if I were surprised.

"What a little sweetheart!" Jane squishes her cheeks. "I bet he'll warm up to these lovely gentlemen shortly. Now, one final question. Yes, you at the back!"

"Thank you all for coming out tonight," says the woman. It's so dark at the back of the auditorium that I can barely make out her face. "I wanted to ask this question to Princess Gail."

"Of course," I say.

"What is your honest opinion about the Rebel Resurgence who are unhappy about the shambles that was the removal of the caste system?"

Chatter breaks out faster in the audience than do the jitters up my back. That is not an appropriate question, and the woman knows it – the booksellers sit her down immediately. But it's out there now, and so many eyes are on me. They want to know the answer, no matter if the time and place is ill-suited.

Sweat collects in my palm, making my microphone that much harder to clutch. The truth is I don't know enough, have never known enough, to comment more on the Resurgence. Roy has kept the details under lock and key, yet is forcing me to confront them like I'm the one who has to go into their haunted house, first in line, with the torch. I remember the lesson with JJ, the questions he posed to make me think. What else do the rebels want? Why are they unhappy?

I don't get a chance to voice my thoughts, as Jane coughs. "That really is not an appropriate question. Let's keep to the agreed topics, my lovelies. It would be nice to end on a high note, so I'll permit just one more question."

It's too late. I'm folding into my own head already, lost in the worry that I'm more unprepared for this than the Selection and hockey combined. More unprepared for this than anything else in my life.

When the questions end, I say my thanks and goodbyes with all the politeness I can muster, and then, for the rest of the journey back to the hotel, I don't say anything at all.

* * *

The plane journey is quiet.

I sit by the window as the sun draws closer to the horizon. Shuddering at flying as I do, watching the world go by outside a pinhole window is not ideal for my stomach. It churns from nerves like a group of ballistic moths, but it's not just the wild height that threatens to induce a gag reflex.

Roy isn't perfect, I know, that he conquered the rebels in one fell swoop, but am I the one to pick up the pieces? Am I just the girl with the broom, sweeping away what I can under a rug? To be forgotten? Where it will fester again?

I squeak, and fling my hand away. I was chewing my nails without realising, which has ruined the smooth pink polish. Shoving them under my thighs, I glance to the Selected boys, who are occupying their own spaces and trying to catch some sleep. My eyes fall on Dominik on the other side of the cabin. Completely knocked out after a few alcoholic beverages, he snoozes on a reclined chair with his head resting towards me. He looks handsome in sleep. At peace. But I can't shake the fact that he's had so many past girlfriends.

I mean… fifteen? And Zelda calls _me_ boy crazy.

I know it shouldn't affect my outlook of a person – people can change, after all – but it seems like a risky move to pursue someone like Dominik. Someone who could get bored and move on as easily as snapping his fingers.

My gaze drifts. Ben and Silas occupy the bar, muttering to each other. They seem to get along, with I'm glad, with the memory of Kingsley vs. Soren fresh on my mind. Ben is funny, charming and generally a nice guy – but I snort to myself. _Nice guy._ If that's the best I can do to describe someone, I _really_ don't know them well enough yet.

Ben stands. He sees me watching, gives a little smile and announces, "Just going to the restroom."

"Breaking the seal already?" Silas cracks a grin.

Ben does a weird move where he raises one arm to the side, raises and bends his other, and then tips his head. Then he playfully tosses his hand at us just before disappearing into the back room.

Silas stretches, takes his drink and moseys over to me. "Don't want to wake Sleeping Beauty over there," he whispers, taking a seat opposite. My hands clench; I don't really know what to say.

"Are you, erm, enjoying the free drinks?"

"Oh, you betcha'." He smiles, taking a sip. "The alcohol is way better quality than any I ever got at college." His smile hollows into a frown. "I… I gotta' ask. About… this whole rebel thing."

My lungs seem to shrivel into prunes. "What do you want to know?"

"I…" He scratches his head, scrunching his face like he is filled with instant regret. "I don't know. Seems like a whole lot of trouble."

"That's an understatement."

"Yeah. Sorry. I don't know where I'm going with this." He gently places the glass on the table between us. "Is… is there anything you can do about it yourself? _Can_ you do anything about it?"

I shrug. "Maybe I can. Maybe I can't." Roy seems to think I can with my Selection. "My brother has people, erm, dealing with it all. I'm trying to help where I can, but I guess there's not much I can do—"

The seatbelt light flashes on, which is strange, because there's no turbulence. No wind. And we're nowhere close to landing yet.

"Your Highness," crackles the pilot over intercom. "Something is interfering with the navigation system. I think we may have to make an emergency landing."

"What?" I snap up to stand, Silas following behind.

It rouses Dominik, who wipes at his eyes and mutters, "Are we there yet?"

Without waiting, I navigate through the lounge and bar to the cockpit doors. The attendant waiting there has a concerned look on his face, but doesn't stop me as he lets me pass through. With so many dials and buttons pinging and lights flashing and the yawning window opening the view to the clouds, it's disorientating enough without the added fuzzy screens, screwing with radar signals.

The pilot and co-pilot are going ape trying to find a workaround, but everything they do doesn't seem to work. Finally, the co-pilot catches me behind him and offers a frantic look.

"We're not sure what's happening. Please, return to your seat."

Then the pilot's steering wheel turns, and the jet pivots to the left. I fling like a ragdoll into a wall, and pain lances up my arm. How was that possible? The pilots didn't touch the wheel; they haven't activated auto-pilot.

"Your Highness!" Silas, also on the floor next to me, his drink glass shattered, hoists himself up before kicking away the shards and offering his hand. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," I say, even though there's definitely a bruise swelling up my arm now.

A door outside the cockpit opens. Ben emerges from the plane toilet zipping up his fly. "What the hell was that?"

"Good evening, gentlemen, ladies, Your Highness."

The voice that echoes through the intercom is no one I recognise. No one on the plane's.

Silas mutters, "Better question: _who_ the hell was that?"

"We have taken control of your jet," the female voice continues, her voice crackled through with static and a monotonous timbre. "You will be landing shortly on the plains of Denbeigh. Do not attempt to re-commandeer your aircraft as this may result in your swift and… _painful_ end."

My heart leaps into my throat. This can only mean one thing. These people… can only be one sort of people.

Before I can unpack the thought, the woman unpacks it for me.

"Upon landing, only Princess Gail may disembark." She pauses. "The Rebel Resurgence would like to speak with her. Alone."

* * *

 **A/N:** Greetings, earthlings and aliens. Did you think Gail was getting out of rebel-babysitting scott-free? Fufufufufu...

Thanks to the Discord for help on this one! This was a troubling one to write so I'm really pleased with how it turned out. :D What did you think of Gail's In-N-Out excuse? The author talk? Dominik's extensive dating history? The rebel interference? Let me know your thoughts!

Have a good one, and as always, thanks for reading!

~ GWA

NTT: "You go out there? You'll get killed."


	15. The Voice

The Rebel Resurgence has taken hold of my jet.

Upon demand from the pilots, we strap ourselves in for landing, but none of us can say anything. Naomi and the rest of the guard contingent hustled through from the back of the jet to accompany us in here, and now our spacious relaxing lounge area has become cramped with guards, red uniforms, and glinting weapons.

"You are _not_ going alone," Naomi says for the fifth time. "I refuse it."

I clench the armrest. This voice, this woman of the Rebel Resurgence – she wanted me to go alone. She didn't say what would happen if I didn't, but do I really want to find out?

"At least let me go with you," Ben offers. He's opposite me, a bruise ballooning on his jaw. Taking a tumble in the confined space of an aeroplane toilet cannot have been fun. "We don't know who these people are—"

"I know exactly who these people are," I say. "And definitely not. They want to talk to me alone? Fine. They will." I shoot a sharp look at Naomi before she protests. "I'm not risking anyone's lives, here."

"Your Highness, see reason," Naomi mutters. "You go out there? You'll get killed."

"Then why don't they just shoot the plane down? Why go all through this trouble?" I shake my head. "They want me alive. I'm not risking collateral damage."

My words are confident but my cadence is a quiver, as violent as a rippling pool. Terror eats me from the inside-out, but I know I'm right, that I'm not being irrational when I say that they must want me alive for something. They want to talk, sure, but it won't be about the last hockey match. They want me to _use_ me.

"This is stupid," Silas speaks suddenly, but not even he can hide the restless tap of his fingers. "Have we sent word to someone? The authorities? The palace? Hell, SWAT team?"

"They've taken over the whole craft, sir," Naomi says through grated teeth. "There is no _sending word."_

"But they'll know from the diversion in our flight pattern that we've been compromised, right?"

"If they do, they sure as hell ain't gonna' do anything about it on time."

That thought terrifies me the most. That everyone could be… too late.

Silas clamps his mouth shut. The jet descends through thick clouds into an arid landscape of patchwork savannahs. A sunset bathes the area in a bright haze – but there's nothing to see out here, not trees nor winding roads nor settlements or towns. Not even a measly hill.

"Look." Dominik has been glued to the window since strapping in. "I can see them… the rebels."

I stretch to peer through. The plane taxis until it's in front of a small camp with a dotting of dark green tarp tents. People in dark hoodies obscure their faces with scarves and prepare ramps for boarding.

Immediately Naomi and the rest of the guards unclick their seatbelts and strap on weapons. Naomi favours a small handgun, shoved almost haphazardly in her pants belt, and now she flicks off the safety and double-checks the cartridge for bullets.

"No, please," I say, standing up. "There's no need to kill anyone."

"If they harm you, there will very much be a need," Naomi retorts. The guards reactivate their walkie-talkies, one guard even going so far as to check all the channels for foreign, enemy intel. "I'm not letting you out of my sight."

"I'll be ten minutes. Maximum." I can't guarantee that in the slightest, but even saying it is reassuring. "Just let me talk to them. I want to avoid anyone getting hurt as much as possible."

"And what about you?" Naomi says.

"I'm fine."

 _Lie._ I take a deep breath and face the Selected boys.

"I'll be back soon."

"Your Highness, you can't be serious—" Silas protests, but with one hand I shut him up.

"Just sit tight. Don't leave the jet, okay?" I make sure to fuel my voice with command. "That's an order from your princess."

Silas, Ben and Dominik exchange glances, but acquiesce, Silas sitting back down. I don't look back at them as I stride, head high, to the exit doors, which crank open to reveal the rebel camp. The hot air hits me first; like I'm being slapped by a curling iron, it draws sweat to my skin, as if I wasn't sweating enough already. The camp itself is the same as I saw it from the window – a few tents dotted here and there, minimal features, a bunch of parked black SUVs run by a skeleton crew that might as well be skeletons. They gather around as I descend the ramshackle steps of their ramp.

I sense Naomi behind me before I hear the first gun clicking, then another five.

"Surrender yourself to the crown immediately!"

"Now, now, there is no need for violence." One steps forward, dressed the same as the others. This is not the same woman from before – her voice is much deeper, much scratchier, to complement her muscled frame. "I am the Second. I will escort Her Highness to meet our leader."

 _Leader?_ Their _leader_ is here?

I want to bolt, but where would I go? Back into the aircraft they control? Into the desert where they can gun me down in their scary black 4-by-4s?

I whip around. Naomi and five other guards have their multitude of guns pointed at rebels. "Please put those down. As long as the Second can promise there will be no violence or harm caused by their party, we can agree to be peaceful to them."

I turn. The Second regards me thoughtfully.

"Well said, Your Highness. I think we can agree there has been enough bloodshed between us over the last few generations."

"How long do you intend to _talk_ to Her Highness?" Naomi shrills, refusing to drop her weapon.

"We will not keep you long. That's a promise."

"I want a number."

The Second shrugs. "How about ten minutes? That's what Her Highness recommended, is it not?"

So they tapped into the security cameras, too.

Naomi hesitates, but lowers her weapon, and the rest of the contingent follows. Clutching the bannister, I descend until my feet touch dusty ground. The sky is a congealing mass of orange clouds, twisting into a deep blue colour as dusk approaches, and the floodlights dot my path as I follow the Second away from the jet. Away from safety.

As promised, though, none of her subordinates follow. I take in my surroundings carefully, sure to note how many people, how many tents, how many weapons there are. I'm stunned to see very few guns in slings – none, even, not even bulging from the belts of distrustful rebels.

They're all unarmed. At least, they give the illusion that they are, but there's no way they're completely outgunned if they decided to ground the aircraft of an enemy royal.

We reach a central tent, and the Second opens a flap inside. There's only one chair.

I stand my ground. "Where is your leader, then?"

"She is here, I assure you."

 _A woman. Okay._ That's information I can work with. "I can quite clearly see she _isn't,"_ I snap.

"Please, sit."

Reluctantly, I sit. The fold-out chair is uncomfortable, certainly not a good start if they were hoping to impress me.

"Your Highness."

The voice – that same voice from the jet. It projects from the other side of the tent. In person, the cadence of her voice is much more natural, flows almost like music, but still hardens on one intonation. It's difficult to piece together further details, like age, race, whether she smoked or not maybe.

The Second gestures to the tent wall. So this is how we're going to play?

"Who are you?"

"I am simply a voice of the people. _The Voice,_ if you will."

"The Voice." I scoff. "Why don't you show your face?"

"Because doing that compromises who I am."

No kidding. It also gives me nothing to work with.

"And these people," I say, treading carefully. "What do these people want?"

"These people are _your_ people, Princess Gail. We are nothing like the rebels that first arose during your grandmother's reign, sick of tyranny and abuse. We are neither like those of your brother's reign, where our ambition overwrought our ideals."

"If they were _my_ people, they would remain peaceful—"

"And we have."

My head spins back like a clock through memory after memory of the Rebel Resurgence's recent activity. Omma had said they were around, protesting, vying for a better future – and no bloodshed.

Then I recall a Report not so long ago. "There's been an increase in crime," I say, feeling smug. "Theft."

The feeling doesn't last. "Theft is not the same as burglary," the Voice counters. "And you will find that those who participated in such activities were only doing so to feed and clothe their families, something our government and monarchy have failed to do."

But that can't be right. No casualties from the rebel exploits? I scrabble through my brain, through reams of documents and updates from recent times… and nothing. Theft is a big issue, but it never resulted in people getting hurt. Innocents getting hurt. And we _would_ know if they did. He won't admit it, but Roy would cling to any excuse to eradicate them all.

"Okay." I cross my arms. "Say I believe you. You want peace. So then you're protesting, what, the removal of the castes?"

"The removal was a clumsy move. What you take in name remains in essence. It is simply history repeating itself; one of your ancestors did the exact same when they came into power."

"Would you have preferred the castes stayed?"

"I didn't say that. The removal of the castes was a necessary step in the right direction, but it was only a small step in what needs to be a leap." The Voice pauses. "Why is it that when I criticise one thing your immediate reaction is to assume I would prefer the opposite extreme?"

"Don't argue semantics with me," I snap. "No matter what you say, _your people_ have had a history of terrorising my family. I don't care how you dress it up."

The Voice's edge serrates like a knife. "I think we protested for good reason, Your Highness. The inequality of Illéa was and still is a just cause."

I'm quiet only for a moment longer.

"So what are we doing then? Why am I here? Why have you grounded my jet and possibly broken what tenuous trust there was between us forever?"

"To negotiate."

I sit up, stare blankly at the tent wall. It's infuriating that I can't see who I'm talking to. Put a face to a voice.

"Negotiate _what?"_

"What our current government lacks is direct communication with the poor, the homeless, the bottom of our society. The people who used to be Eights and Sevens."

"Who do you think Lady Lilly Carter is?" She was Roy's Selected and a prime liaison after the rebel assault on the palace nine years ago. Now she works with Roy and the government as a spokesperson for rebels and lower-class people alike. " _She_ is our link."

"I respect Lady Carter for bridging the divide between us, but it is simply too slow, not enough, and low profile." A ruffle. "No. I would like for you to become like me. A voice. Another voice."

I nearly spit out air.

"You want _me_ to become _a rebel?"_

"Precisely. What better way to fill the chasm than by having Her Royal Highness herself on our side? What our nation needs is an overhaul of its politics and society, something of which can only be achieved from the inside. You will speak for us, work with us, meet and discuss with us, protest with us. You will be _one_ of us."

But it's a betrayal to everything I know. Me, being a rebel? It's practically an oxymoron for _royal._ There's a reason my family have been fighting them for decades. Even my blood curdles at the thought.

And what would Roy say? His life was ruined by rebels. I might as well stab him in the back.

"Absolutely not."

"… That's it? Just a point-blank _no?"_

"Do you know how ridiculous this request is? I can't just skip happily into your base and swap anecdotes. Right now, you're on the public and government's radar. The common people _avoid_ you. You're one step away from becoming as aggressive as the rebel groups before you."

"No." It's the first emotion I hear channelled into the words. An acute, subtle rage that burns hotter than a bonfire. "No. This time, it will be different. I will show the people that we can achieve our goals by rational, thoughtful and constructive discussion. I _will."_

I stand up. "Well, it won't start with me."

I make my way towards the exit.

"Think on it, Princess Gail," the Voice calls. "If you and I cannot coexist, neither can the people of our country."

The Second lets me go. I don't realise until I'm halfway up the jet stairs that I'm shaking. Naomi and her guards aim their weapons, but none of the other rebels go to make a move against us, and soon, the camp, the rebels, the Second, and the Voice, are behind a reinforced steel door.

Everything around me seems to churn. Naomi and the other guards ply me with questions, with safety checks and contingent plans, but I can barely hear any of it. Inside I feel only my stomach, clenching, relaxing, and clenching again. I cannot believe I sat down in a rebel encampment after rebels grounded my jet and had a conversation with rebels. A civil one at that. It's hard to believe the Voice and the Second lead a pocket of rebellion, quiet but powerful in their own ways.

The Voice. _The Voice._ Her name shoots shivers down my spine – enough that Dominik comes close to offer me his blanket. I dismiss him, and everyone else, and barricade myself in the bedroom to sit and think and parse my confused thoughts. At some point, the plane takes back off.

She wants me to work with her – yet I know nothing about her. Her face. Her history. Her ethics. I am a public persona, but the Voice is a new name on the scene, and right now her shrouded identity is to no one's advantage but hers.

Maybe the Second was lying? Maybe the Voice is just some random person, chosen to fool me. Maybe she's not a leader at all? Maybe she leads, but only a small portion of the entire country's whole resistance? _Maybe, maybe, maybe._ Somehow, only by that short meeting, I can tell she was born to lead.

But I'm not. I'm not cut out for this, rebellions and rebels and secrets. If she is the lit flames within a vast golden fireplace, all I am is the pretty glass ornament on the mantel.

My lip trembles, and something wet falls on my lap – I'm crying, trembling, so torn up about it all that I don't know how to feel, and it's forming in thick tears.

"Princess Gail?" Naomi calls. "We need to debrief—"

"We can debrief when we get back!" I shrill. "So go away!"

I clutch the comforter and wipe away my tears. There's another, meeker knock at the door this time, and I'm prepared to yell when Ben's small voice goes, "Hey, it's… it's us."

"I don't want to debrief. I don't want to talk about it."

"I know." Pause. "Just… would you let us come in? Promise we won't ask you annoying questions."

I'm not sure what compels me, but I do let Ben in – and Silas, and Dominik, who offers me the blanket again with much better success. I slump on the bed with it wrapped around me, and Ben and Dominik on either side, our knees touching. Silas sits on the armchair opposite with a blank face that I guess is supposed to be sympathy.

"I don't know what happened," Dominik says, "but… I'm sorry it did."

I don't reply. Sometimes it's just nice to have the company rather than the words. Ben pats my back as I try to control my sniffles.

"Here." After a little while, Silas rummages through his jacket and produces a tissue. "You got, er… you got snot on your lip."

My hand goes up immediately. "Oh, do I?" I glance at Ben and Dominik.

Dominik winces. "I was trying to be polite."

 _Snot on your face. Very attractive_. "I've been sitting here with a gooey green nose and you were trying to be _polite?"_ I take the tissue, surprised it smells of Silas' cologne, and wipe everything away.

"In your defence, you still look very regal," Ben offers.

"And hey, even princesses got germs," says Silas. "They're like… holy, majestic germs, but they're still germs."

I can't help but laugh. "You really do talk about germs a lot, don't you?"

"It's the only thing I think about, to be honest."

"Silas x Germs is the true OTP," Ben whispers conspiratorially.

The boys fill the silence with chatter that helps me feel better, lessens the impact of what just happened. Suddenly I'm grateful to have started a Selection – grateful to have this extended family. Sure, they all want to date me, but I know all of them at least have good hearts, good intentions. It's moments like these that make me realise it for certain.

As we come into landing and I'm forced back into the lounge to strap in my seatbelt, I tell the boys, "Please don't tell any of the others what happened today."

"Scout's honour," says Ben.

"Of course," says Dom.

"Sure," says Silas. "If the king asks…"

"That's… different."

He'll ask all right. In my stomach my fear twists into anger. He'll want to know every moment, every detail, every possible little thing to paint him the full picture. But it's me that should be holding the brush. It's me that should be asking the questions.

Now it's my turn for an interrogation.

* * *

Roy comes rushing up to the limo as it pulls into the palace garage. I immediately step out, my blotchy face remade out of spite (and also to make sure there's no more snot). He grabs me by the shoulders, checks every inch of me.

"Oh my god, Gail— are you all right?"

"I'm fine." The rest of the journey home has only honed my anger into a sharp point that causes my words to jab. "I want to speak to you. In private."

He startles at my tone. "Yes, of course. The Selected— are they all right as well?"

"We're all good here, Your Majesty," Ben says as he steps out behind me. Dominik and Silas exit through the other door. "I got a bruise from the toilet, but otherwise we weren't targeted at all."

"Right, okay. That's— that's good." He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes for a few moments before looking back at me. "When I got word… I… I didn't—"

"In private," I say again, brushing passed him.

"You should get examined by the doctor, first—"

"No. I want to _talk,_ Roy," I snap, marching up the steps.

Cami is at the door, but seeing me as I am, she only gives me a reassuring smile before allowing me to pass. In fact, no one stops our party as I make my way into Roy's office. Once the door shuts, I whirl on them both, but Roy brings me into another hug.

"Mother's on her way home now— I was so worried—"

"Really?" I push him away. "If you were so worried, why have you left me completely in the dark?"

Roy looks taken aback. Cami passes him a glance.

"Gail, we haven't left you in the dark—"

"Oh no? How come I don't know _anything_ about the Resurgence then? You're expecting me to quell this revolution with my actions and my words and my Selection and yet I don't even know _what_ they're rebelling in the first place!"

"The caste system—"

"It's not the caste system! It's about what it left behind!"

" _Stop_ interrupting me," Roy says sharply. "All right, I'll admit that we know _a few_ more details about the rebels than you, but we've been open about the organisation as a whole."

"Then you must not know about the Voice then?"

At that, Roy goes dead still. _Caught._

Cami's eyebrows jump. "Gail, you know of the Voice?"

"What do _you_ know of her?" I ask instead.

"Not much," she says after slight hesitation. "Only that they're a literal _voice_ for the rebels. A de-facto leader after Walter Wolanski, who was the last man to lead the rebels."

"The Voice is their highest and most elusive member," Roy reiterates, stepping closer to me. "You're saying you confronted them?"

"Yes. When the rebels grounded the plan and demanded I speak to them, they brought me to someone called the Voice."

Roy rubs his temple. "See, this is why you needed to debrief."

Anger fuels me. "Yes, well, I'd just been fearing for my life, so _sorry_ if I didn't think to give you a rundown first!"

"Just—" Roy raises his hands in a placating gesture. "Please, just tell us everything you know."

I do. From their dingy camp to the Second escorting me to the tent to the Voice asking me to become a rebel and fight for her cause. To their credit neither say anything, Roy ending up sitting back at his desk like he can't stand and absorb this tantamount information at the same time, finger clacking rapidly on his cane.

"If they're gutsy enough to ground a royal jet to meet with you, they must be beginning the next phase of their operations." He fidgets, foot tapping softly against the carpet. "They must be thinking of going more public."

"So you _do_ know more than you're letting on."

"Why are you making me out to be the bad guy here?" Roy lets out a frantic laugh. "I'm just glad you're alive!"

"No thanks to you, not telling what the heck I'd be in for when I signed up for this!"

"Hey, now." He shoots up from his seat. "I told you it was either you represent our family to have this Selection or you don't have one at all, and you _agreed."_

"All right, all right." Cami raises her hands between us. "Really, you two. This is _not_ the time to be aiming your aggression at each other."

My jaw feathers, and I cross my hands. She's right, but also I so don't want her to be right. Roy sighs and sits back down.

"Fine, fine. What else do you want to know?"

"What else _do_ you know? About the Rebel Resurgence?"

"Aside from what we can glean from their protests and other crimes, not much. They want a change that I can't just snap my fingers and give to them. The Voice especially…" He shakes his head. "When I say they're elusive, Gail, I mean it. We haven't a single photo of their face. We don't know what they look like or sound like."

"Well, she's a woman for a start. Her second-in-command said so."

"Gee, that narrows it down," Roy retorts.

"Her voice is sort of… deep, I guess? It's low pitched but doesn't have much intonation."

"It's… a start." He sounds disappointed.

Cami sits on the lip of Roy's desk. "By the way it sounds with her asking you to _think on it,_ she might try to contact you again. Do you think we can capitalise on that? We may be able to use a chance like that to discover who she is."

It's possible. The Rebel Resurgence's plans definitely weren't halted today when I rejected their offer. If the Voice has hope for me and the future, she'll want to give the idea of working together time to germinate in my head, and then she'll come for me again. This time, with higher expectations.

"That's a good idea." Roy nods, scribbling this down. "I doubt she'll drop another plane from the air again. No, she'll probably try another way to contact you again."

"Whoa, whoa." I wave in front of them. "All that you're suggesting is that I meet with her again. What am I supposed to do then? Agree to her request? Become a rebel?"

"No. Definitely not." Roy shutters his eyes for a moment. "All we need is to make sure we get something to go off. This woman's a ghost right now. We need to start somewhere."

"But assume she does find me again. What would make her so sure I'd say yes?"

"That's what we don't know," says Roy. "During my Selection, we had a source on the inside that fed us information about who could be the spy in my Selection. We don't have that this time. Truly, we're… we're feeling around in the dark here."

In the dark and yet clambering straight for the top.

Roy stands up again to envelop me in another hug. This time, I let it simmer, shut my eyes for a moment and embrace the sticky sweet feeling of safety.

"I'm just glad you're okay, Gail." He holds me by the shoulders. "For now, I just want you to focus on your Selection. It's working so far – our approval ratings have rocketed and the Resurgence has been getting less attention, but that could sway at any time. Be the distraction the public needs." He smirks. "Maybe relax on the eliminations and up the ante on the dates. Can't keep people hanging on who your favourites are, okay?"

"Okay."

"And you _are_ okay, right, Gail?" Cami comes to my side, holds one of my hands while she watches me with a mixed expression. "Because if anything has got to you—"

"I'm fine." I smile. "I'm kind of hungry."

"I'll get someone on some blueberry pancakes."

"Gail?" comes a little voice on the other side of the door. Tay. "Gail, Roy, Cami, can I come in?"

Cami swings it open for him. Tay, his childminder Regan, and two guards, wait outside with stiff expressions, Tay peeling free to clutch at my leg.

"I heard you met bad people. I think that means you should never go outside ever again."

I burst out laughing – that's such a Tay thing to say. "I can't do that, scamp."

"You should stay and bake with me."

Well, now that's a request I can't turn down. "Want to go bake some pancakes?"

He lights up. "Yay! Can we invite Kingsley?"

"Kingsley is busy." Frankly I don't know if I'm in the state to see any of the other boys today. I ruffle Tay's hair. "I'll race you to the kitchens!"

He immediately bolts off. I deliberately lag behind a few moments, but not before passing a look to Roy and Cami. Cami just gives me a nod, and half of Roy's mouth is turned up.

 _Focus on your Selection._

So I vow to adhere to one rule: that my Selection will be so good, so dramatic and juicy and wild and distracting that the rebels will become a mere afterthought in my head. So good, that everyone will forget them entirely.

Including me.

* * *

 **A/N:** Greetings pals, I am still in recovery from Spiderman Far From Home, and so I am bringing this chapter to you in a deep state of despair. Alas, I hope you enjoyed the chapter, and the introduction of the mysterious rebel leader... the Voice... :D

Can't remember if there's anything else I'm supposed to say, so instead I'll just ask who your favourite character is so far. Let me know ;)

~ GWA

NTT: "Gail gets turned on by scary."


	16. Broody, Angsty, Tall, Dark and Handsome

"So, what, these punks want you to just _be_ a rebel? Tch." Legs thrown across the armchair rest, Zelda spits her words with venom. Her hands ball into fists. "They can shove their ideas up their—"

"You're going to say a bad word!" June chimes, pointing at Zelda from her spot at the foot of the sofa. "You were! You were!"

I give Zelda a pointed look. The sentiment is appreciated, but _maaaaybe_ not in front of her baby sister.

The next few days are quiet ones. The rebel encounter is covered up, those involved sworn to secrecy, and Roy has foisted a forced recuperation time on me in the guise of unfortunate food poisoning. He visits more than once a day, asking if I'm okay, pressing me to talk to a doctor if necessary. One chat with the rebels and he thinks me a delicate flower; a single touch will wilt my petals. His constant checking up on me is insufferable – even though I'm fine, and I insist I'm fine, Roy doesn't let up. All I want is to go back to normal, instead of being isolated from everyone around me.

Well, except Zelda, of course. She's been keeping me company since I have been confined to my quarters. Mostly my parlour.

"Shove it up their _butts._ There."

June snickers. "Heh. _Butt_."

"It's not a bad word. It's a body part." She gets up and wiggles at June. "See? That's a butt. So you can repeat that all you like."

"Butt!" June pipes. She laughs and rolls around on the carpet.

"I don't know what their ultimate goal is." I sink into the sofa, wrapping my arms around a plump pink cushion. "I mean, I do – equality and all that, but I don't see how getting me to be their trophy is going to move matters along smoothly. It's not like I'm the government. I'm not even the king."

"So… what now?" Zelda sits up. "Forget about them?"

"I wish," I snort. "We'll see whether the Voice will contact me again, but until then, Roy wants me to focus all my efforts on the Selection."

"Shouldn't be too hard. All those hot boys mooning over you."

"Hot boys!" June yells.

"Oh, shut up." I throw the cushion, but Zelda grabs it, tossing it back at me.

"Speaking of hard…" Zelda makes a motion of hitting a puck with a hockey stick, and then looks pointedly at June. With her big mouth, we can't speak about the final try-outs around her; she'd probably blab to Rudy or Captain Durante, which would be the opposite of good.

"Yeah," is the only thing I can say. Truth be told, it hasn't settled in yet that there's only one more set of trials to overcome before I can say I'm officially on the team. A casual hockey team playing small tournaments for bragging rights over money, sure, but a hockey team nonetheless.

There's a deep sense of longing that has clawed out from my gut. I never knew it was there, but now it bubbles at the surface of my skin. I _want_ to win, I _want_ to pass. I _want_ to be part of this team, more than anything. More than that time I begged Omma and Appa for a pony for my sixth birthday (that comes a close second).

These will be the most difficult trials yet. Now I'm with the other, bigger girls, who could mow me down like bulldozers. I have to be careful, watch myself, but play sharp and smart. Only then will I be accepted. Only then can I win.

I glance at Zelda, who is staring at the ceiling. She has to work hard, too – she'll be in the hot seat right next to Bellona Strike herself. I can't imagine that pressure.

"We'll talk about it later," I say into the silence. Zelda gives me a single nod.

June sits up. "Talk about what?"

"Nothing," Zelda says.

"Is it hot boys? Oooooh!" June scooches over to me. "Who are you going to date next? Tell me!"

The question catches me off-guard. "I don't know, June. Who do you think I should date next?" Has she even met any of them?

"None! They're all scary!"

I laugh. "That's not very nice!"

"It's true! Tay told me so!"

Trust Tay to tell June that they were 'all scary'.

"Oh, don't you worry about that, June," says Zelda, smirking, "Gail gets turned on by scary."

"I do not!"

"Turned on!" June yells.

"Oh, come on. If Chocolate Ninja is anything to go by, you like your men _broody_ and _angsty_ and _tall, dark and handsome."_

That can't be true. Can it? Do I have a… type?

"Chocolate Ninja is only one guy," I protest weakly, but I guess I _have_ always found them more attractive when they're being Mysterious(TM). "What's wrong with that, anyway?"

"Nothing is wrong with it," says Zelda, "except maybe only a handful of your dudes in the Selection exhibit such qualities."

"Oh? And who would you say is _broody?_ Aside from You-Know-Who?"

"Voldemort!" June cheers.

"There's Soren McDark Side," Zelda counts off her fingers for effect, "and Maximus Maximum Angst. Not even a handful. Two."

"I barely know them."

"Then go on a date, silly!" June squishes her cheeks. "Even if boys are ew."

I suppose I could. The small interactions I've had with Soren paint him as so serious, you could cut him open and seriousness would just bleed straight from his veins. Maximus I know less, but from the chat he had with Omma and me, he seems sweet, maybe a little awkward – almost totally the opposite to his dark façade.

"Maybe I should date someone more happy, then," I think.

"How about that Dominik guy?" Zelda suggests. "He _did_ ask you live on air."

Oh he did, and though I was embarrassed at the time, now I need to reward that sort of behaviour – that bold, unafraid confidence to sweep me off my feet. If Dominik can make a huge public sign of affection like that, then the other boys can and will, too. They'll step it up, make the Selection more interesting, and make my job much, _much_ easier.

That said, Dominik's comments about his numerous exes haunts my thoughts like a stubborn ghost. Fifteen other girls – I'm sixteenth in a long line of failed relationships. It turns over in my head, marinating like barbeque steak. I'm not quite ready to have an opinion on it yet, but for now it's not going to stop me at least giving him a shot.

I finally refuse to let Naomi stop me from leaving my quarters and march my way to the Men's Parlour. As the doors open to let me in, the boys' poker match goes quiet, and eyes fall to me expectantly.

"Princess Gail," opens Nathaniel Durham. "Are you feeling better?"

"Much better, thank you, Nathaniel. Let it be known I will never eat a street vendor hot dog again." Three sets of eyes – belonging to Silas, Ben, and Dominik – exchange heavy glances. They must have talked about it amongst themselves, but so far, it doesn't seem like anyone else suspects anything. I hope to keep it that way.

After the room calms, I glide towards Dominik. He straightens, a smile brightening his features – it's adorable, really, though not quite as appealing since the author talk.

"Hi, Dominik, can I talk to you?" I smile to let him know nothing's wrong. He nods and follows outside into the quieter hallway. "How are you?"

"I'm great, just great. How are you?" He raises his hands as if to touch me, but hesitates. "Since the other day, we haven't see you at meals or around and… I was worried…"

"I'm fine," I say dismissively. "Roy forced me to 'recover' in my quarters for a few days."

"It was probably for a good thing," Dominik notes. "These things can be scary…"

"I'm fine," I say again, but he only frowns. "I wanted to ask if you could make good on your public proposal."

"To date?" His frown twists so fast he nearly gets whiplash. "Yes! Yes. That'd be great! When? Where would you like to go?"

I doubt Roy will allow any dates beyond palace walls for now. "Somewhere here. And maybe tomorrow sometime?"

"Then it's a date." Suddenly he's kneeling, and suddenly my hand in pressed to his lips. "I'm been looking forward to taking you out, Princess."

I think I'm supposed to melt at the gesture. But I don't. I only smile politely as I extract my hand. "Okay. After politics tomorrow, then?"

"After politics it is." He stands, chirruping, "I can't wait!" with such a huge grin that I can't help but feel horribly guilty that I don't match his enthusiasm.

* * *

"Settle down, gentlemen, Gail. Take your seats quickly now please."

Cami's voice is a soft command, and in the classroom people sink into seats immediately. There was no seating plan this time around, so when I chose my desk – in the middle centre of the room – whoever got to sit next to me was whoever just happened to be there at the right time.

and that was Elliot Sawyer.

His expression is one of pure delight. "It's an honour to sit with you, Princess," he says, in such a cheery voice I can't think it otherwise. His bulky frame bulges awkwardly in the small desk, but since I'm so small, we fit together like two puzzle pieces.

"How're your politics, Elliot?" I ask as Cami scans the room.

Elliot's palm wobbles. "So so. I know the basic stuff, but…" He shrugs, face going somewhat red at the admittance.

"That's the point of class. To teach you."

It seems to help – his lips curl.

Cami approaches me. "Gail, where is Zelda?"

I look around – I don't know why I do. Maybe I expected Zelda to rip off her mask and exclaim, " _YOU'VE BEEN PUNKED! I'M HERE!"_ , but she is obviously not amongst the heaving testosterone that makes me and Cami the odd ones out.

"I don't know," I say. She didn't make any indication that she was sick earlier.

Or… maybe she's skipping?

That _is_ a very Zelda thing to do. It's not like she finds these classes any more stimulating than her private tutoring lessons – and definitely not any more fun. I try to hold a neutral expression, but Cami's lips purse, and I can't tell whether she's read my mind.

"All right. I'll let Rudy know."

Well, for her sake, now I _hope_ she's sick.

Cami returns to the front. "Good morning, everyone. Welcome to your first, of what I hope to be of many, Politics class. Here I'll be teaching you about the intricate details about the governing and infrastructure of our country. I hope you'll all take away something. Please don't be afraid to ask questions."

I don't think Cami knows that the boys here reek of _being very afraid._ Despite her serene demeanour, she has an intimidating narrow gaze – the kind from a disappointed parent, which is worse than any sort of angry glare. Her brown eyes seem to bore into you, even when her back is turned.

Politics should be the easiest class since my whole life _is_ politics, so I don't think I'll have to try very hard to ace whatever Cami tosses my way. She begins by explaining some basic details, like the very definition of the word _politics,_ and the typical _constitutional vs absolute monarchy_ thing that this family just loves to milk. Naturally I've tuned out, my eyes wandering.

They land on Sheng of course. He's only in the seat in front of me, next to Avian. I'm glad they've both formed some sort of friendship – I never would've guessed it, considering Avian seems so chilled and level when Sheng is so… high-strung. Unlike in our last history class, Sheng seems to be intently writing Cami's notes down. Is he actually paying attention this time?

I drag my eyes away to the side, to Elliot and his workbook. Or should I say sketchbook – he doodles in the margins, first eyes, then filling in the details of the nose and adding shading to the cheeks. It doesn't take me long to realise he's drawing Cami, portraying her with the same strength she conveys in real life. It's so fascinating that I don't notice him catch me, and his arm instantly flies over to cover the sketch.

"You— you were peeking."

"Oh, sorry." I blink, keeping my voice to a low hush. "I was mesmerised. You draw really well."

"It's nothing." He flips over to the next, blank page, and suddenly says, "Hey, you see the match last night? University of Honduragua South vs. University of Labrador? The Labradorian goal keeper broke his nose."

"I didn't, but wow, really? How? Someone slam into him? Did he fall?"

"Nah." He grins. "Just ran into the wall. Caught right through the guard."

"Ouch."

"Yeah. He got substituted. Three minutes extra time." He chuckled. "Gave the Labradorians the chance to even the score."

"Care to share?"

Cami sits on the lip of her desk. All eyes are on us. Sheng and Avian have turned around, Sheng with a confused look.

"Huh?" I blurt.

Cami raises an eyebrow at me. "You two were in such a deep conversation that it must be very interesting. Please, share it with everyone."

"Er." I gulp. "I was just explaining to Elliot when we switched over from absolute to constitutional."

Cami frowns. "I clearly heard the word _score,_ Gail, Sir Sawyer. Save your hockey chat for after class." She gives me a pointed look, the _disappointed parent gaze_ that twists guilt through my soul, and swivels around to write more board notes.

"I still owe you a proper hockey chat," I whisper.

Elliot's eyebrows raise, and then he smiles so sweetly I'm momentarily stunned. "So you do. I'm glad you remember."

We cut our chat short as Cami turns around then, but Zelda's words come back to me. _You like your men broody and angsty and tall, dark and handsome._ Elliot may not be my picture of tall and dark, but he sure is handsome. Maybe I don't have a type after all.

It distracts me to the end of class.

"Please read through these notes I've prepared for next time." Cami hands out five stapled sheets of paper, and I scowl when one lands on my desk. "You'll be tested next class." She lowers her voice. "Gail, can you please stay?"

I find Dominik – he's waiting for me at the door, beckoning me on. I hold up my hand apologetically, a signal that he should wait outside, and he files out with the rest of the boys as Cami starts to erase the marks on the board.

"You and Elliot were talking all class."

It's not said meanly, but I do feel the edge in it.

"Sorry," I say quietly. "We start talking hockey and then we can't really stop…"

She places the eraser down to face me. There's a warm regard on her face. "I know. You and hockey are like me and architecture. I could wax poetic on it for days. But you mustn't distract the others in class, okay? Elliot stuck out to me when I was glancing over the boys' test scores the other day."

"Test scores?" I sit on the desk. "What scores?"

"They did a general knowledge exam for their Selection candidacy."

Why am I not surprised? They were forced to do psychometric tests. A general knowledge exam isn't far off.

"Okay. So what about Elliot?"

"His was one of the weaker results. It looks like he's been scraping by to keep his hockey scholarship at the University of Whites, as well. He needs to pay attention more than most."

I'm flooded with guilt. It's not like Elliot was one hundred per cent paying attention today, even when I wasn't talking to him – he was sketching in his book – but I still feel it stinging like I'm the one who held him back.

"Right. All right. Do you think… I should move seats?"

Cami considers me for a moment. "No. I don't want him to be treated as needing specific help or anything. He's smart, just not in this way. If anything, I think your intervention may encourage him." She smirks. "You should pay attention, too. It may help to become more knowledgeable on our government when you go out for your excursions."

I glance over the sheet. _Yay! More work to do!_ Already I'm beginning to question my politics knowledge for this test – Cami seems to have dug deep for content.

"Speaking of, I was hoping to make these classes more exciting."

"Oh?" I say. Not that it matters – literally anything would make these classes more exciting.

"I remember taking classes during Roy's Selection and it was a constant battle not to fall asleep, so it'll be much more fun if we _go_ places that instil our knowledge rather than read everything from a textbook. Visit some museums or embassies, perhaps. Even an excursion to the 1600 New Pennsylvania Avenue in Washington DC, where the Prime Minister and the government are based."

"That would be cool," I say, "if you can convince Roy to let us go."

"A guard contingent and upped security measures and he'll be satisfied." She winks. "I'm sure I can convince him."

That makes one of us. "While you're at it, can you tell him to approve some dates outside the palace?"

She laughs. "I'll try." Her eyes drift to the door. "Now, you'd better go. It looked like someone was eager to steal you away."

Outside, Dominik is alone. He grins brightly and holds out his arm.

"Shall we, Your Highness?"

I fold up the revision sheet and tuck it into my bag.

"We shall."

* * *

I decide to let Dominik take the reins for our date together, and he guides us towards the gardens. A walk through the lawns? Not very original, but I'm not knocking any chance to go outside and smell the fresh air. After politics, it'll be good to clear my head.

"You look so beautiful today, Your Highness."

"Aw, thank you." Truth be told I didn't put on much make-up, knowing I'd just have my head in my hands all morning, but it's consolation to know someone thinks I look good without putting in too much effort.

 _Bet he's said that to all his other previous girlfriends, too._

I ponder on the thought as we weave through the courtyard, past the fountain, and into the lawns. Emerald grass tickles against my kitten heels as a thick scent of honeysuckle blooms in my senses. The thought isn't driven by jealousy as much as it is worry – that if he's said it a thousand times before, to a thousand different girls, am I _really_ so special after all? To him? Or am I just another strike of the tally?

Shoving the thought away, I say, "Where are we going?"

"It's not much further."

"We can't take too long, remember. We have to get back for lunch."

He smiles. "Oh, we won't be joining the others for lunch."

Around a flowerbed his picnic blanket comes into full view, complete with a kitsch basket filled with ham, cheese, chopped fruits and vegetables, cakes, macaroons, fresh chocolate muffins and salmon and cream cheese on a bed of blinis. Cushions pad the rest of the space along with a few spare blankets.

"Wow, you went all out!"

"Of course." He grins. "Only for you."

 _Only for me, huh?_ Why can't I believe him? I chew my lip to smother the thought and smile back, taking a seat to dive into the picnic basket, dipping on a cucumber stick in hummus as Dominik settles opposite. The photographer, who has been lingering around us as we walked, uses the quiet moment to take pictures. I try not to pose too hard, but I can't help but feel I'm really on the spotlight this date. My other dates were badly organised in that there wasn't anyone to take photos, so I really have to step it up now.

Once he whisks back into the flowerbeds, Dominik scooches closer. "What do you think?"

"It's wonderful." And it is, but I still feel wary, every hair on my skin is raised in alarm. It's like this boy is draped in red flags, but I'm still resolved to give him a chance, the benefit of the doubt. Maybe all fifteen of his previous girlfriends just… didn't work out?

"I heard you liked blueberries." From the basket he produces a wicker bowl of freshly washed blueberries, so round and huge my eyes bug out of my head. "So I had these brought in for you."

I take a bite, and pleasure washes over me. "Yum!" I fall back onto the pillows. As at odds as I am with my feelings on Dominik, he does know my weaknesses.

He grins, pops one into his mouth, and constructs a ham and cheese croissant. "I can't wait to get to know you better, Your Highness. Really, I've been a… big admirer of yours forever."

Not knowing how to respond to that, I say, "Does it ever influence your writing? Your emotions?"

He looks taken aback by the subject change but ploughs on. "Of course! Comes with the territory. When you're writing people as human as you are, they have to have their own thoughts and feelings and complexities. I just channel some of my own into them." He goes still. "Have you… ever read any of my books?"

"No." Awkward. "But I heard good things about them. I didn't want it to influence how I saw you."

"Of course, of course." He takes a chunk out of the croissant as I dip another carrot stick into the hummus.

"Is it a lonely job? Writing?"

"Hmmm. Yes and no." He shrugs. "Characters populate my head all the time. I don't _feel_ lonely, you know? But after a day or two just following their adventures it's nice to take a break with some real social interaction."

But if he's had fifteen girlfriends… is he really not as lonely as he likes to believe?

We chat and enjoy the food in the autumn sun. He can talk for Illéa, Dominik, but I never feel that deeper connection, that spark, that hones my curiosity to ask more than surface-level questions. It just feels like we're making smalltalk over and over again. _It must be me,_ I think, _and this silly worry_ _that's preventing us from forming a deeper bond_. But I can't be sure. I can't be sure if it's a valid concern or not to have.

"The cucumbers are really nice in hummus," I say at one point, to fill the silence.

"Allow me." He plucks a cucumber, dips it into the hummus, and offers it to me. I go to take it. "No, here." He goes a little red. "Let me feed you."

I go bright red too, but I open my mouth, and he gently nears it so I can take a bite. I take it from him just as he turns away, cheeks ablaze.

"You really are so beautiful."

I can't take it anymore.

"Is that what you said to Girlfriend Number Fourteen, too? What about Number Thirteen?"

Astonished, Dominik blinks rapidly. "What? Oh, god, the author panel—"

"Yes, the author panel," I say softly. "It's been in my mind every time I'm around you, Dominik. Am I just going to be Girlfriend Number Fifteen to you?"

"No! No, definitely not!" He shuffles closer, so close our knees are touching. "It's not like that. _I'm_ not like that, I swear."

"Yet you have a _list_ of girlfriends. Why haven't any of your old relationships been successful?"

"M-My longest was a year and a half," he protests.

"So it _might_ be a year and a half before you tire of me?"

"It's not like that," he repeats. "Your Highness… I'm a hopeless romantic. I can't help it. I just… I have to have a girlfriend. It's a need."

Now it's _my_ turn to be astonished. He has a _need_ to have a girlfriend?

"A need? Like… how a person needs food, or sleep?"

"Sort of— no, not really— it's hard to explain." He shakes his head. "I'm not desperate. I'm not creepy, I swear it. My last relationships have never worked out because of various things."

"And what things are they?" I challenge. "Because if you and I date then we're going to need to confront these _things."_

"Like…" he shrugs, "just things. She finds my habits annoying, or didn't like the way I romance her, or, heck, didn't like me spending too much time writing."

"So she would break up with you? Was that always the case?"

"Yes— sometimes—" He throws his head into his hands. "This isn't how I pictured today going."

Nor I. "So then what about your last girlfriend? You were dating her two months ago. Why did you break up?"

"I…" He bows his head. "I broke up with her because I wanted to apply for the Selection…"

So they broke up because of me? Now the alarms are blaring, shrieking so loud in my ears they might as well be real. I stand up, shaking my head.

"If you'd so easily break up with your last girlfriend because of me then you clearly weren't invested in your relationship. You didn't even care. What's to say that won't happen again?"

"It won't!" He scrambles up to stand, taking my hands. "Please. The truth is, Princess, I… I've been in love with you for as long as I can remember."

I think the confession is supposed to move me, but I'm only drowning further in antipathy.

"I'm in love with you," he says again. "It never worked out with any other girl because there was always you."

"You didn't even know me." I snatch my hand away to his shock. "You still don't. How can you be in love with me?"

"I-I just am." He's resolute in his feelings. "I am."

"No, I'm sorry, but this isn't going to work." I step back, shaking my head. "I'm sorry Dominik, but I'm eliminating you from my Selection."

All colour drains from his face, leaving ashy, hollow remains. A blow almost physical hits my stomach, but it's just the wind ghosting from my lungs, just a massive weight of guilt that crashes down on my shoulders.

Dominik looks so much worse. Like I've stabbed him. Like I've stabbed his mother. Like I've stabbed his mother, trod on his dog, and taken a dump on his front porch.

"I… right…" All of that fight for me has deflated, drained from him until only a withering acceptance remains. "Right. Thank you for the opportunity. I'll go and pack." He unbuttons his collar. "And don't worry, your secret is safe with me."

Without another word, without even looking in my eye, Dominik heads back to the palace. I think I'm totally alone until one of the guards appears back in my view, peeling from the quartet to follow his charge. Well, Dominik won't be his charge for long. I slump back onto the picnic blanket, more aware than ever that I had an audience in those guards – and the photographer, who has mysteriously disappeared.

Great. This will be news by tomorrow. Whatever happened to _ease up on the eliminations?_ Burying my head in my hands, I try to focus on the good that's come out of this. This is the first real elimination – the first time I've let someone go because we didn't work as individuals, and not because of lack of initial connection. If it's drama Roy wanted, then you can't get more dramatic than this.

I let Dominik go, and now, I hope, he's free from his strange obsession with me. Maybe now he can re-evaluate why he's had so many past failed relationships, and maybe he can find one that really works for him.

As for me, I have one less gentleman in my Selection. Twenty-three. It's a small step to the end, but it's a step nonetheless.

But this feeling… like my heart being twisted until it wrings blood. Is this what it's like to break someone's hopes and dreams? _Maybe it won't be so bad with the others,_ I rationalise, _because Dominik's already in love with you._ But somehow I know, no matter how much I wish it, every elimination from now on will only get harder and harder to do.

But there's a twinkle in my stomach that makes this more bearable. It's relief. Relief that Dominik is going, that we're both moving on.

I ask one of the guards to summon a servant from the kitchens to clean up, give the food away, and then I head to lunch.

* * *

If anyone notices that Dominik is gone, no one says anything to me. Which is good, because I'm too lost in thought to talk much. The only person I want to talk about it with is Zelda, and she hasn't responded to my texts since last night. Am I worried? No. Am I surprised? Yes, especially when we have hockey to discuss.

The last try-outs are soon. So soon they're breathing down my neck. We need a plan to make sure we escape the palace okay – we can't have Aderyn discovering me missing again.

Working my jaw, I head towards the Bezuidenhout-Leeuwenhoek quarters on the other side of the palace. Since I'm not in a rush, I take the chance to admire how they've made the place their own, despite being on palace grounds. The wing is filled with the living quarters of other people, but the B-Z's have two pot plants outside their front door, and a silver plaque that just reads _It's pronounced Be-ZOY-den-out LAY-when-hook_ hanging on the centre.

Gingerly, I knock.

After a moment comes a voice.

"Password?"

"Bezuidenhout-Leeuwenhoek"

Durante swings open the door and smiles. His white shirt and black slacks are a sharp contrast to his uniform, but it's the bright yellow sunflower painted messily over his face that is the real shock.

"Of course you could never get the password wrong, Your Highness," he says. "How can I help?"

"Is Zelda in?"

He nods. "Come in."

Their living room is a breathable space, with a beige U-shaped sofa and TV stand in the centre, and a ping-pong table just to the right. Light filters from open windows at the back, airing out the strong, tangy scent of paint into the trees beyond. Zelda sits cross-legged on a tarpaulin on the carpet, a cherry painted on her forehead, gloomily staring into the distance as June streaks Rudy's cheeks with black whiskers.

Zelda only gives me a half-hearted nod in acknowledgement. I open my mouth to speak, but June beats me first.

"Gail!" she shrieks, taking a pot of silver paint and lumbering towards me. "I demand to paint a rocket on your face!"

"Now, now. Ask nicely," chides Rudy softly.

"Sorry, Daddy. I demand to paint a rocket on your face… please!"

"Sorry, June, I'll have to pass." I pet her gently on the head and spin her back to the sheet. Why do the others get flowers and fruit and kittens, and I get a rocket? "Zel, are you okay?"

June makes the smuggest face I've ever seen. "She's grooooounded!"

Zelda's face tightens.

"For a week," Rudy clarifies. He gives her a stern look. "She skipped her politics class this morning."

I had no idea she was going to, but that she got caught isn't exactly a surprise.

Then it hits me.

The final try-outs are in a few days.

We've always driven out the palace, but with Zelda's influence (i.e. her waggling the "my dad's the captain and I'll tell him you were asleep on the job" excuse) and me hiding in the front seat, we've been able to squeeze our way to freedom without a peep from the guards and without a peep to her parents. How are we going to get to the ice rink?

"I confiscated her cell as well. I'm sorry, Your Highness, but Zelda needs to study."

"Practically imprisoned me more than I already am," she mutters.

Rudy gives her a sharp look. "You knew your behaviour would have consequences."

"I already _know_ politics! I've been learning about it since I was twelve – when, you know, I started living in the _political centre of the damn country!"_

Durante takes a seat next to June and lets her run blue paint on his eyebrows. However, his voice is all a cold warning as he says, "Watch your language in front of your sister, Zelda."

"You're old enough to know better than skipping class," Rudy adds coolly.

Zelda makes a face. "And _you're_ old enough to know that foisting these crappy lessons on me is a jerk move."

" _Zelda,_ " Rudy warns. "Your father said to watch your language—"

" _Zelda do this! Zelda do that!_ Ugh!" She throws herself up and marches towards her room. "It's one demand after another. You just can't let me do what I want, can you?"

A door slams shut. Silence.

Rudy runs a hand through his hair. Green paint clumps at the ends.

"I'll talk to her—"

"No," I cut across, and abruptly cough. "Sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt. I'll go talk to her."

"I… think that would be best," Durante says.

"Me too," says June, but Durante only gives her a stern look in return.

In the hallway, I tread quietly, fretting that one creak in the floorboards could set Zelda off. Her door is right at the end, covered in star stickers we decorated together when we were thirteen, and I knock, hoping she won't turn me away immediately.

"Leave me alone!" she shrills. Somehow that hurts worse than _go away._

"It's me," I say. "Can we, erm, talk?"

She opens, yanks me inside, and locks after me. Already she's cleaned off June's artwork, and she paces back and forth, breathing heavily.

"Rudy just grounds me for the tiniest thing! Sneak my disgusting broccoli in the trashcan? He cooks me a whole meal of it. Stream a movie when I'm supposed to be asleep? He blocks my laptop's internet access. Miss one stupid class? Now I'm grounded for a week. I can't stand it!" She balls her fists together. "Just— why can't they just leave me alone? I don't want to go to class. _You_ don't even want to go to class!"

"I mean, I agreed to for my Selection…" I mumble, but Zelda doesn't seem to hear me.

"And I have to do that stupid _learn how to walk_ class soon too!" She means Romilda's etiquette lessons. "It's like I'm being treated like I don't know anything, and I hate it!"

To change the subject, I say, "Zelda, what are we going to do about the hockey try-outs?"

Zelda stops. It dawns on her slowly, then fast, like an avalanche. "Damn it, the try-outs! How are we— ugh!" She looks up to the ceiling. "What the hell are we going to do now? If I'm grounded, I can't drive us out of the palace!"

"Keep your voice down!" I force her to sit on her bed, and she sits with her leg bouncing. "We'll have to sneak out another way."

"Like what? Driving is the fastest way out of the palace. I can get through the entrance checkpoints being the captain's daughter alone, but I bet my butt cheeks he'll inform the station guards to bar me from leaving." She falls back to the bed. "Imagine grounding me. Like I'm a child."

"If it makes you feel any better, I haven't had such a great day either." My voice falters. "I eliminated Dominik."

"Yo, really?" She sits back up. "Didn't you have a date planned with him?"

"Yep. I cut it off _during_ the date."

Zelda cackles. "Hah, that's rough. Doesn't quite compare to the pain and anguish I'm experiencing with helicopter parents, but I'll pretend I'm not having a worse day and pat you sympathetically on the back."

"Very funny." My lips twist. "Really, though, this was different from the mass elimination. I feel… really guilty about it. You should've seen his face."

"Well, duh. You got to know this guy before you brutally ripped his heart from his chest—" I shoot her a glare. "Oh, come on, you gotta' do it, Gail. It's part of the competition." She shrugs. "Chemistry isn't something you can just fake. Not all of them will be madly in love with you."

"He definitely was. Told me as much."

"Yeah, well, Dom's a rare exception. Let's be honest, if he's already head over heels for you then it probably wasn't a good match anyway."

That does untwist the knot in my stomach, even if it is a roundabout way of saying he was in love with my image, rather than me. I know Roy said to cool it with eliminations, but this is the first one that, though it hurts, feels right to me.

"And if he starts bad-mouthing you to press…" Zelda's knuckles make a distinctive _crack_ noise. "We'll be having words."

"Looks like you won't be talking as much as punching."

"Sounds good to me. I could do with punching something." Her shoulders relax and the rest of her body follows, crumpling like paper. "Gail, how the hell are we going to escape the palace for the try-outs?"

"We'll think of something." It's an empty reassurance, and Zelda knows it, shaking her head.

"There's gotta' be something we can do." She taps her fist on her open palm. "There's no way in hell I'm missing the next session. Bellona wants me by her side. I can't disappoint her. I won't."

It's the determination, that absolute weight behind her words that resonates. My bones vibrate with that same feeling, and my chest clenches like it knows how much this means to me, how much this matters. Zelda will be by the manager's side all session, but I'll be on the field. I'll be where her eyes will seek, where her thoughts will run. No, I won't disappoint her.

I can't.

* * *

 **A/N** : Ollo all! Oh dear, Gail and Zelda are in quite a pickle... how will they escape the palace for the final try-outs? You'll have to wait to find out...

Our first elimination proper goes to Dominik Giles, so a big thank you to **PrincessLilyCarter** for him! I felt terribly guilty writing this one, but I don't think it quite would've worked out. Still, I haven't found a more interesting guy in terms of dating history, so I had to milk it for ~maximum drama~ because it's me. Thank you again (also I'm sorry and please don't kill me lol).

ALSO! I KNOW WHAT I FORGOT LAST TIME! You should all definitely go read GingersnapBeat's **Snippet, Plus Some** , because the new chapter is about the lovely Queen Camilla, and it is amaaaaaaaaazing. Seriously, it's a beautifully written introspective into her character from a young age to her current self. The writing is God Tier. I got chills reading it. It's so good. Also Roy's in it, as if you'd need any more convincing ;D Parker's chapter are also adooooorable and ihgjkghls.

Probably no chapter next week because I'm not entirely happy with 17 yet, but I updated my outline and the ball is rolling... y'all are in for some adventure lololol...

Thanks for reading everyone!

~ GWA

NTT: "When you grow up in the palace, Grayson, you either walk right or you're forced to crawl on your hands and knees. _Forever_."


	17. Escape the Palace

It's the morning of the try-outs, and I feel totally prepared.

Just kidding. I don't. Why did I sign up for this again?

Nerves boil beneath my skin. The moment since I woke up – no, since before I even went to sleep yesterday evening, my blood has been on hyper-charge, surging across my body, raising the hairs on my neck and sharpening my senses in anticipation. My heart beats desperately. Will it end today? Or will it be just the beginning? The players in these final try-outs will be the best of the best, the cream of the crop, the peak of Angeles talent, and worry filters through the adrenaline. _I won't get in, I'm not good enough._

It's supposed to be a casual team, but this doesn't feel like anything casual.

Aderyn helps me get ready for the morning, choosing a simple summer dress and scrubbing my face of dry skin, making no more comment about my tense expression than "Didn't sleep well?". She's oblivious for what's the come – everyone is – but it's better that way. Talking about it will only make it worse.

"I'm sure your etiquette class this morning will help ease you, Your Highness." Aderyn runs the brush through my hair. It calms. "I hear Romilda has an exciting lesson planned first."

 _Etiquette_ and _exciting_ are not words I'd put together.

"What is she making us do?"

"Posture," Aderyn says. "How you enter a room and present yourself."

I'm halfway through a groan when a banging knock cuts through our solitude.

"Princess Gail! Good morning! It's me, Levi!"

I wave Aderyn off and answer the door. It's not unusual to see him in an oversized beige sweater and tight skinny jeans, looking like a typical male K-Pop idol, but it does pop out in the midst of our formal palace dress code, and I don't really have the heart to tell him Romilda wants suit and tie. With a camera in hand, he points it at me.

"Can I steal you for a few moments for another interview for my video diary?" His eyebrows wiggle. "The L-Hearties have been dying for another look."

 _Focus on the Selection._ Of all the times, now Roy's voice chooses to jump into my head.

"Sure." I turn to Aderyn. "I'll be back soon."

He leads me to my parlour. The windows are open to air out a thick scent of cleaning products, and the gossamer curtain billow in wrinkles, but aside from that we're alone. Levi looks around and whistles.

"You sure love pink, don't you, Princess?"

"It is the best colour in existence."

It takes Levi naught-point-three seconds to set up his camera.

"Okay! So this interview will only be a handful of questions."

"What sort of questions?"

"Your life and K-Pop."

Not sure what else I expected.

"Okay." I sit up. "I'm ready."

Levi clears his throat once before turning on the camera and launching into, "What'supL-Heartiesit'syourboyLevibackatyouagainwithanothervideo! I heard you all loud and clear, so I managed to convince the beautiful Princess Gail back for another short episode in her personal pink parlour room!" He winks at me. "And she's looking as cute as always, isn't she?"

Goodbye composure. My cheeks glow. "Oh, thank you, you're very sweet."

"So the L-Hearties have been bombarding me with questions in my live Instagraph streams, and I've got a few of them here. Princess Gail, the most asked question I got was… who is your LH² bias?"

He starts laughing before I even register the question. Bias means _favourite band member;_ it should be pretty obvious who it is. "That has to be a joke!"

"I hope it is!" His eyes twinkle with mischief. "I might forgive you if you say J-Prince. He's _my_ bias."

"It's you, obviously." I smile.

"Told you all!" Levi puffs out his chest. "Princess, you're as smart as you are cute! What's your favourite song?"

I can't outright admit that I haven't listened to their songs for a while, especially not to his fanbase, which can range from gentle to rabid. I was hooked on their most recent album until Levi was Selected, at which point I stopped listening entirely for fear of influencing my opinion. Like Dominik was with his books, I couldn't bring myself to immerse in Levi's music anymore – it's not the same now that he's competing.

"I like Silver Lining a lot. It's happy and upbeat and fun."

"You must like the Heal side better, right?"

Because LH² stands for _love hurts, love heals._ It's the whole concept of his band – the two sides warring at each other. "The Heal songs are usually more peppy and cute. Sometimes if I'm angry I'll listen to the Hurt songs."

"I can't even imagine you angry. Bet you just puff up all cute… like a balloon!"

I feel like I should be offended that he just compared me to a puffy balloon, but somehow I can't bring myself to be.

"You don't want to see me angry," I say. "I can be real mean!"

"Would you punish me if I was bad?"

"If you were being naughty, I would."

"You heard it here first, L-Hearties," Levi croons. "Don't be naughty to the Princess!" He laughs and I giggle, if only because his humour is utterly infectious.

"Last question! If you were in a band, who would be your band members?"

"Oh, erm." I tilt my head – Levi loves that. "Can I have a band with all my Selected?"

"Sure! You can rotate them out, like a true idol group." He winks. "Keep me as the leader though, right?"

"Of course! Though I will have to nominate Tay for that position too. I know he's shy of the spotlight, but he'd be so cute the shows would sell out instantly."

"I would buy _all_ the tickets. He's such a cutie!"

"You might be able to get an interview with him, too, if you ask nicely." I grin. "Maybe I can help make that happen."

He flings out his arms so wide the camera nearly sails across the room. "That'd be great! Prince Taeyang's very popular, especially with the Korean L-Hearties. They adore him, really. If you could do that…"

"I'll see what I can do. You haven't met him yet?"

Levi sits back and shuts his camera off. It's the first time I've seen anything but a smile on his face – it's not quite a frown, but a forlorn, lost expression. "Only briefly, when Her Majesty Ji-Yu was around. A few other times I've tried talking to him, he ran away. I'd hate to think I was scaring him…"

My eyebrows raise. It's really not like Levi to be so candid. About something so small and insignificant, sure, but he's making it out to be a big deal.

"He's like that with all new people, don't worry."

Levi takes a breath. "Okay, that's… okay. I was just sure I was doing something wrong…"

"It takes Tay time to warm up to strangers. I'll get you two talking. Maybe you can teach him a few Korean words."

Levi's eyes sparkle. "Yes! That'd be super!" Before I can acknowledge the moment, the camera is up again, and so is Levi's cheeky grin. "Thanks so much for answering our questions, Gail! One last goodbye for the L-Hearties in Korea?"

"Erm… _Love Hurts, Love Heals forever?"_

"Ooooh! I love it!" He makes a salute gesture. "BesuretolikethevideoandsubscribeformorecontentmybeautifulL-Hearties. See you next time! Love! You! All!"

After he shuts the camera off, Levi launches at me in a bear hug. Surprised, I fall back on the sofa with a small _oof!_ , but start laughing as he does.

"Thank you! That was great!" He sits back, grinning so hard his cheeks must ache. "Thank you so so much! I can't wait to meet Prince Tay properly! See you at etiquette class!"

And without another word, Levi speeds out of the room. I'm sat there, dazed but somehow fulfilled. I'm the leaf in his whirlwind, where I can't stop to catch my breath or put my feet on the ground. It's like he never stops. _Does_ he ever stop? It's a question I didn't realised I had until now, but has been lingering at the back of my mind since I met him on the first day.

He's boundless and energetic and sparky… but then that one moment, where the camera was off and he was speaking so earnestly…

I can't quite puzzle my feelings about Levi. He's a busy pop idol after all – sitting still doesn't suit him.

And I wonder whether that means… being with me doesn't suit him, either.

* * *

"Backs straight, eyes up, gentlemen! I want to see confidence! I want to see power!"

I've never seen Romilda van der Voort in a pantsuit before, especially not a leopard print one, but somehow she rocks it, moving with as much grace as she did decades ago in the peak of her supermodel career. Her hands seem to flow like ribbons as they guide our stringy bunch of Selected plus me and Zelda around, books balanced on our heads.

"This is stupid," Zelda says, for what is probably the fourth time this hour. The book on her head squashes her choppy fringe so that it lances over her eyes. "Learning to walk. Think Romilda will potty train us next?"

In front of me and next in line to walk (or Walk of Shame as Zelda puts it), Grayson comes to stand. He'd normally be taller than Romilda, but in her giant heels it's hard for anyone to compete. With an awkward smile, Grayson takes a step forwards.

"Grayson, darling, your shoes are lovely, but look _ahead._ " She adjust Grayson's chin until his nose makes an upward slope. "That's it! There we go. You have such lovely posture. Don't ruin it by glancing at your feet!"

Grayson marches robotically to the other side. He's the zookeeper, so I can't imagine his job involves more posture control than pest control. When he makes it to the other side without further comment from Romilda, he grins.

"Gail, darling, you next!" she calls. "Everyone watch the master now!"

The Proper Walk has been instilled into me from such a young age that I cross the space without even a jesting poke from Romilda. She claps, encouraging the others to follow.

"Excellent! You see that, gentlemen? How her arms swung with enough confidence to propel her forwards, but not so much that she knocked out everyone within a three-foot radius? And not once did she look at her feet. Simply marvellous work!"

I know I'm supposed to attend these things to bond with the Selected, but I can't focus. There are try-outs to prepare for, strategies I have to think of before tonight's game. If anything I could stand with Romilda and judge everyone else – at least that would be more entertaining and give me time to think.

"You next now, Zelda, darling."

"What? No, _watch the master,_ for me?" She scoffs, righting the book on her head and instantly marching across the space. The book barely wobbles. "I have a valet and a captain as role models."

"I underestimated you!" Romilda chortles, and opens her arms to the group yet to walk. "Compare these two walks, gentlemen. You can tell a very person's personality by the way they move. Her Highness' light and delicate walk, assured but not unladylike, in comparison to the sheer power that Zelda exuberates as she marches with purpose, with feeling…"

"Wow, you two were really good." Grayson mumbles through Romilda's lavish and over-the-top descriptions. "Practice?"

Zelda snorts. "When you grow up in the palace, Grayson, you either walk right or you're forced to crawl on your hands and knees. _Forever_."

He baulks. "That's a joke… right?" he poses to me.

"Zelda is exaggerating," I say, "but the royal family are all taught from young age how to compose ourselves. My brother went through it, my mother went through it, my dad's parents probably went through it too. That's why you all need to learn, if one of you is becoming a prince."

It's almost silly that I have to judge based on something so insignificant. Walking and posture hardly contribute to my romantic feelings, but it _is_ important for image, and in this position, image is everything. The Selection is supposed to portray a certain image of me and my family, after all.

Zelda makes a hard face at me. Desperate to talk about the hockey try-outs, no doubt, but with Grayson and the others around, it's hard to get a word in without risking exposure. I make a minute shake of my head. _Not now._

"Kingsley! Will you be able to make it across unscathed?"

All eyes fall on Kingsley. He pops his collar. "Romilda, I'll do you one better." He walks – nay, he _glides_ across the floor – and _does a twirl_ to face the boys yet to go. The book upon his head is as static as electricity.

"Bravo!" Romilda claps, as Kingsley reaches the other side. Walk of _Fame_ more like. "I imagine a model like Kingsley is quite advanced in the manner of posture and walking, so don't panic if you're not able to do all those flourishes quite yet."

I can't help but find Soren's eyes amongst the line. He looks like someone spilt rotten milk down his front and left it to congeal. We've had several history lessons since that first one and JJ still hasn't finished marking the essays yet, and I'm dying to see how it all goes. How 'Kingsley's' essay turned out.

A few more boys make it across with comments and criticism, and then suddenly it's Sheng's turn.

Already he looks awkward stuffed into a suit, and even when it looks like he's not moving the book on his head vibrates. Sheng is the last person I'd expect to see in an etiquette class ever, yet his jaw is locked tight, his brow is furrowed. He's really trying, and I'm nearly winded with pity.

He takes one step. The book collapses. Undeterred, he bends down to pick it back up, puts it back on his head, and tries again. Three steps – the book falls. The look of frustration only punches me with more pity until it leaves holes in my soul.

Romilda, however, is exultant. "You see, this is the kind of enthusiasm I want to see!"

"Enthusiasm?" Kingsley scoffs. "He's as stiff as a statue!"

"But can't you see how hard he's trying?" Romilda flutters her hand at him. "Sometimes it's as much the effort as it is the success."

Sheng's eyes flash to mine. All I see is pure determination alight behind his dark irises. Of course he's trying so hard – he's doing it for me. He takes a few more steps without losing my gaze, and it opens a door in my heart, allowing reborn feelings to crash back into my body. It's so intense that I nearly reach for Zelda's shoulder to stabilise me. How can he make me feel this way without trying?

He has his weakness too. When he's nearly at the end of the space, I tilt my head and smile back.

The book drops to the floor with a booming thud.

"So close, darling! I'll give you kudos. We'll work on you." She pats him on the back as Sheng, redder than before, retrieves the book once more. "Next!"

I blink hard. _Totally didn't happen,_ I think as I try to shepherd the loose feelings back into a locked chest. I so don't need to be having second thoughts about Sheng right now. I so don't need the heat that creeps to my cheeks.

The procession completes, and Romilda separates the group into pairs so the entire hall space is filled. "Gail," she says to me, "I'm going to put you with someone who is struggling just a little."

She guides me next to Avian Holmes. The DJ. Given that he exuberates easy swagger like thick cologne, it's not surprising this hoity-toity stiff-back business evades him, but even when he's stationary the book undulates, wobbles, jitters and titters, having its own dance party on Avian's red hair.

I search the hall only to spot Sheng rammed into a tight corner space with Kingsley as his monitor. Oh dear. I stifle a giggle at the sight of them.

"Now I want you all to practice hard! No looking at your feet!" At Avian and I, Romilda claps twice. "Listen to Her Highness' advice, darling. She's been doing this since she was a small fry."

Dashing in a sleek designer suit, it's only a dipped line on Avian's forehead that betrays any sort of distress. Otherwise he seems perfectly content to swing and sway without a care in the world, book toppling and all.

"Real talk," he says, with his delicious New Zealand twang, "is all this walking stuff really necessary?"

"In this line of work, yes." I step forwards to push his shoulders back and lift his chin. "If we ever present ourselves to a foreign party of lords, ladies or royalty, we need to look the part."

"Huh. So the mighty Princess Gail never slouches?"

"Only when no one's looking."

He laughs at that. It causes the book to tumble. I retrieve it for him and place it back on his head.

"Gotta' say, you don't need any of this when you're blowing the roof off with your tunes." This time, he readjusts his own posture – it's better. "Or when you're composing music."

"Oh, don't you worry," I tease. "Next lesson Romilda will teach us all how to sit."

"How to _sit?"_ He laughs again, rubbing a hand down his face. Miraculously, the book stays still. "Man. This class is gonna' kill me."

I point to Sheng. "Not as much as it might kill Sheng first."

He snorts, following my gaze. "Pffft. He _is_ pretty funny to watch."

"How did you two become friends?" I'm trying not to betray how obvious it is that Sheng and I were anything but distant acquaintances before the Selection, but curiosity eats me. The pair are so different, yet now every time I see Sheng at meals, Avian's at his side, and they're always muttering to each other in the Men's Parlour. "I mean… you're so chill… and Sheng is so…"

"Not," he agrees with a chuckle. "That's why I like him. He keeps it real."

"Huh." I suppose he does – say what I will about Sheng, he's never lied to me, and he's the type who never will.

"Why do you want to know?" Avian's eyebrows dip. "You _like_ like him, right?"

I go red as his hair. "Oh, erm, that's not—"

"I'm just the side chick that you'll use to get to him, aren't I?"

I go even redder, my stomach dropping. "No, no, I swear, I—"

Avian bursts out laughing so hard that the rest of the group looks our way. Immediately he snaps his jaw shut before Romilda glowers him to death for being too loud.

"Sorry, couldn't help myself." He winks. "You're fun to tease."

I stick out my tongue – which is decidedly _un graceful,_ but Romilda is turned away. I guide Avian along and after half an hour of gentle tutoring his posture slowly but surely relaxes while the book stays rigid on his head. He makes one last stride across the space: arms swinging in perfect synch. Head up. Feet that rise and connect with the floor at just the right angle.

"There's hope for you yet," I say. Avian grins blithely.

"Now, gentlemen, Your Highness, Miss Zelda! I have a surprise for you. A guest judge who will help me for the second portion of this class." Romilda gestures to the door. "Please welcome His Royal Majesty himself."

The doors part. Roy strides inside with perfect timing. Without his cane, he must have his feet inserts, and they correct nearly all but a slight bias on his left foot. For some reason, over his regular suit, he's also wearing a cloak – a thick, red velvet that flows down to the ground with a fluffy white trim. An identical one hangs over the crook on his arm.

"Gentlemen, gentlemen. Welcome to the worst first lesson you'll ever experience."

"Did you count to ten on that entrance?" I call from the back. I'm promptly ignored.

"You may think you know how to walk. You may think your technique has vastly improved over the last hour or two you've been sore on your feet. But you know nothing. Not until you walk…" he sweeps the cloak so it fans in the air, "WITH A CLOAK."

I facepalm.

Rudy pads in after Roy, silently carrying an opaque box rammed with more of these cloaks. So this is the next portion of the class.

At my side, Avian gulps. "Eheh. Oh boy."

"Gentlemen! Collect your cloaks!" Romilda declares as Rudy places the box down and pries open the lid. "For the next part of our class, you will learn to walk with a cloak around your neck. With fabric by your feet. A potential trip hazard. Will you survive? Or will you fall?"

"And I will be judging you." Roy unfolds a chair and plonks himself down. "Form an orderly line please."

As the boys grumble and collect cloaks, I sidle over to my brother. "Don't you have work to do?"

"I'm taking a break." He sighs. "I need it, trust me."

"I mean, sure, but… to watch us walk around?"

"Are you kidding? This is the most exciting thing that's happened all day. And it's only the morning." He makes an expression like a lost puppy, and whispers, "Don't take this singular happiness away from me, peanut."

"Don't call me peanut." But I don't refute him either, and reluctantly grab a cloak of my own. The queue bisects the hall and cuts off halfway across, though this time, absolutely no one wants to be first, so I take the reins, fasten the cloak, adjust the book, and go.

I make it look easy. Maybe that will encourage the Selected.

"Ten out of ten!" Roy calls. "Wow, I'm mightily impressed. Only someone brilliant and genius could have taught you such high-level skills."

"You're right. Omma will be thrilled at the compliment."

The boys trail after me as Roy and Romilda call out their own comments, their scores, their disappointment or elation. What began as a simple class has turned into a bloodthirsty game of gaining the most respect from two critical judges. Elliot manages to get to the other side without looking at his feet, but the book tumbles right at the end. Jasper makes the smart move to hold the cloak up slightly since he's so short, and Romilda praises him for using his head. Silas is the first to stumble, which makes me stifle a giggle and then immediately seize up in guilt.

"It's a brutal world, gentlemen." Roy pats a grumbling Silas on the back as he points to a random spot in the distance. "Be prepared to face embarrassment. Be prepared to face humiliation. Be prepared to be torn apart in all manner of being as people ruthlessly judge you for every action and inaction you make."

"Hey, no offence, Gail," Zelda calls from a few boys back, "but your bro is having _way_ too much fun with this."

I would facepalm thrice if I had enough hands.

I circle back around to the boys yet to go for encouragement. Avian finds me and tugs my arm. He has an easy face – no one's being graded on this, after all – but there is a little bead of sweat that's escaped his hairline, dashing fast down his forehead.

"You think I'll make it across the Chasm of Doom?"

"You'll be fine. Don't think so hard about it. That's the trick."

"If _not thinking_ is the trick, I'll definitely be all right."

"Hah." I give his arm a squeeze. "Good luck."

The men are demotivated. Nathaniel won't look me in the eye. Ansel's narrowed eyes focus blearily on the chasm, and I can only guess he's assessing the length he has to walk to his walking ability in vain. Parker is twiddling his thumbs just behind, nervously murmuring to himself. Has this challenge broken them? Is this too much?

I get to Sheng, careful not to do anything unusual. His face is as sturdy as rock. His gaze flickers to me and softens, but only for a moment. I distract him from the task, and I can't distract him – not from this, not where he must make a good impression.

"Don't worry, Your Highness," Kingsley says behind him, winking, "Not all of us find this difficult."

I turn around as Avian gets to the front of the queue.

"Come now, Avian!" Romilda calls. I think Roy has fuelled her zeal tenfold, as her legs swing animatedly on the seat. "Show us your spirit!"

Exhibiting his natural swagger, Avian charges onwards. _Come on, come on,_ I think, like my mental words will somehow egg him on. The cloak flutters behind him. His march beats across the floor, his head tipped high in self-reverence. It's magnificent, really – shockingly hopeful and confident. Pride swells in my chest as he reaches the other end of the chasm, perfectly safe, book intact.

Roy claps. "Now _that's_ a walk."

"Beautiful!" Romilda sighs. "I love being instantly gratified with improvement."

Avian flashes me a thumbs-up and I return it. Strange and unnecessary this class is, I guess it really has helped me see the Selected in a new light. Bond with them, if only a little.

A hand grabs my arm. Zelda is right by me for a second. "The parking lot. Six o'clock."

Alarm flashes through me. "You've got a plan?"

"I've got a plan. It's… something." She winces. "It involves wearing a red wig and stealing Rudy's car."

"Are you crazy? That will never work!"

"I know, but it's our only hope. That or… or we don't go."

Then she's breezing past, back to her place in the line.

My heart is going again, throwing me out of synch with reality. Thoughts of tonight rush back. _What if, what if._ My fists clench. If this doesn't work, we can't leave. If this doesn't, our hockey careers end for good.

This class? It's just a warm-up, really, because the real challenge… begins tonight.

* * *

As the sun dips to the horizon, I double-check my backpack and snatch keys from the dresser. _5:45pm,_ reads the digital alarm clock on my bedside table. That should be enough time.

I take a deep breath. _Okay, Gail, you can do this._

I lock my balcony door quietly before shimmying along the wall to the next floor, sweat collecting in my pits as I do. I'm so nervous about tonight that it bleeds a deep blue in my vision, that even the slightest look to the ground far below dizzies my head. Reaching the second floor balcony, I double-check that no one noticed me and head inside.

My phone buzzes, and I dip behind a curtain. Zelda? _Text Message from Rose,_ the screen reads, and I quickly open it.

 _Will do, Su. I'm so nervous! I can barely stand straight! DX_

I told her to meet us outside in about an hour's time, so I really, _really_ hope that whatever batty plan Zelda has conjured to get us through the palace checkpoints works. I go to take a step before I hear the distinctive pad noises of footsteps on carpet, and I freeze.

Someone's here.

Why? There should be no patrols at this time. This hallway leads to nothing but the one chamber, and it makes no sense that anyone would be down here. I steady my breathing as it ricochets in my lungs, reacting to my fear of being caught. With an influx of courage, I raise my hand and pull back the curtain just a teensy-weensy bit.

It's Maximus Wellington.

Why my Selected is down here is even more puzzling. I took my food early so I could skip dinner, so he should be preparing for the meal, yet he looks anything but prepared, wearing an untucked black shirt underneath a worn leather jacket and messy dark hair. The light hits the (very, ahem, attractive) angles of his face as he slips into the drawing room with a nonchalant expression.

 _But why?_ I want to yell. _Why now, why today, of all days?_

I fidget restlessly as a plan comes into my head. I need to get him out of there _now,_ or else I'll never make it to the try-outs on time. I take a step out and knock quietly on the door. There's a shuffle, and then Maximus opens up. Alarm crosses his handsome features.

"Your Highness," he greets. "What… are you doing here?"

"Where's your bodyguard?"

He swallows. "I… left him behind."

"You shouldn't be going around the palace without him."

"Where's yours?"

I baulk. "T-That's none of your concern."

Max rubs the back of his neck. "Truth be told, I lost him so I could have some peace and quiet to myself away from my room. This place is perfect for it. I guess… you're doing the same thing?"

"Yes, hahah. Sure. I am. Absolutely." I take his arm and pull him out of the room. "And I need you to leave because this is my room and I like being here alone. By myself."

Bewildered, he takes a step back. "Oh. Well… okay."

I nod. "Goodbye."

Shutting the door behind me, I breathe a sigh. I don't owe him an explanation. He might look at me strangely from now on, but I'm the princess and I call the shots, so I hope he'll stay quiet out of fear of elimination. I head to the back of the room and fish for the secret button around the fireplace. A soft _snick_ sounds out, and the wall panel pops open to the dark passage below.

I take one step.

"You're sneaking out."

" _Ah!"_ I shriek, nearly toppling down the staircase. I turn around to see Max peering through a crack in the door, head tipped at an angle so that his bangs flop over his eyes.

"Wha—? No! I-I'm not sneaking out!" I stomp a foot. "I thought I told you to leave!"

He shrugs. "You sounded strange. I just wanted to make sure you were okay…"

"I-I'm fine." Jammed up to my eyes in nerves, but fine. "You need to leave!"

"But… where are you going?"

"You're very nosy for someone I could eliminate right now."

He holds up his hand. "I wasn't going to tell anyway." He makes a little smile. "You're not the only one who sneaks out."

It takes me a second to process.

"Wait, you sneak out?" I take a step towards him. "Where? Where do you go?"

He shrugs. It's a cagey gesture. "Just out. When palace life gets too much."

"You've never been caught?"

I mean, obviously. Otherwise I'd know by now. But his face doesn't betray any sort of frustration at the question. "No."

"And… and _how_ do you sneak out?"

He looks uncomfortable. "Well…"

"Tell me or I'll kick your butt," I warn. "I can be very scary when I'm mad." Like a puffy balloon, apparently.

"There's… there's a secret passage in my room."

 _In his bedroom?_ I have to fight to keep my face neutral. No, there's no way there should be access right in his freakin' bedroom, but if he's telling the truth, it's exists and there's nothing I can do about it. I glance at my phone. It's getting later and later, and I don't have time to sort this out before the try-outs.

Unless… _he_ can help us get there.

Zelda stealing Rudy's car is sure to raise a billion red flags with security. They'll want to see her ID immediately, they'll recognise her face, they'll bar her and inform Durante without a second thought. Not even Zelda thinks this plan will work. But maybe if Maximus has another way out… My heart blunders in my chest. This might be it. An actual chance.

 _Can I trust him?_ The question flitters about my head with a whole host of new worries. _Where exactly does he go? Who does he meet? Is there some ulterior motive to his secret excursions?_

I snatch his arm and drag him inside, shutting the door tightly. "You said there's a passage in your room. Where does it lead?"

He looks startled at my newfound determination. "Out. Of the palace."

"Can you take me down there? Can you get me and Zelda out of here?"

"I… sure I can, but… why?"

"Maximus, if you're willing to promise you'll be quiet and help us get somewhere, then I'm willing to overlook your blatant lack of protocol and keep you in the competition without judgement." I hold out a hand. "Do we have a deal?"

He hesitates. I see it in his eyes. _Is this a good idea?_ His face is hard to read in this strange moonlight, but he eventually meets my hand with his own and shakes, squeezing gently.

"All right."

And we have our way out.

* * *

 **A/N:** Strange secrets and dodgy deals... hmmm, how will this turn out? :D Hope you enjoyed the chapter, and let me know what you thought of Levi, Avian and Max!

This is as good a time as any to mention I've got a companion series to this story called **Select Few**! It's a bunch of oneshots about the other characters, Selected included. I started it during the tsats era, so there are some characters from the previous story that you haven't met or won't meet, but there are likewise characters who appear in both as well. Right now there's nine chapters, the last of which is about Roy and Cami and funny pet names. I'm expanding it to include tratr, so any of the Selected could get a oneshot if I'm feeling inspired. Who knows, your fave might get a feature ;)

Will Gail and Zelda prevail in the final try-outs? What's Maximus hiding? You'll have to wait to find out...

Thanks for reading!

~ GWA

NTT: "This guy has _suspicious_ spilling out of his ears, Gail. Are you sure we can trust him?"


	18. Mean Glares and Pinkie Swears

_How does Maximus Wellington know how to sneak out?_

The question plagues me as Zelda and I follow him quietly down the halls of the palace. We don't have to sneak anymore since it we're only walking around and our bodyguards are paces behind, but a battle still rages in my head. There's only one reason I can think for a Selected to want to sneak out.

 _He's a rebel._

It happened in Roy's Selection – it could easily happen in mine. I know extreme measures were taken to cut the fat from the Selection's pool of candidates – including the dangerous, probably-wants-to-kill-me fat – but there's always a chance we weren't careful enough, weren't clever enough to spot the obvious signs. By the way Max pads like a tiger through tall grass, he must be used to sneaking. Maybe more than I know.

Zelda makes a face. I had to go down to the servant's loading bay to tell her to go back (and ditch the red wig) and leave her quarters like normal, and then climb back up and leave the same way. If this plan doesn't work, we're as good as toast, but we make it to the Selected wing and to his quarters without fanfare. A guard stands stationary outside. Immediately Max waves cheerily.

"Good evening, Johnson."

"Evening, sir. Ma'ams."

"The three of us are just going to chill in my room." Max has the heart to look embarrassed. "So, er… please don't disturb us."

If the guard has questions about Zelda being there, he wisely decides to keep them to himself. "Wouldn't dream of it, sir."

Naomi grunts. "We'll wait out here." She gestures to the faceless guard who Durante assigned to follow Zelda. The door guard even opens the door for us, with no idea what is really planned.

Once inside, Max puts on the television to high volume. I don't have much time to take in the simple layout of his room, the lack of decorations and personal ornaments. It smells strongly of his cologne, a woody scent that fills me up with shivers.

"This way." Max leads us into his bathroom, and shuts the door behind.

"Two girls and one dude in a bathroom," Zelda snorts, but not without a sharp glare at Max. "You sure you aren't planning anything?"

Now he looks genuinely embarrassed. "The passage is in here. It's not easy to find." He crouches and feels around the back of the toilet bowl base. If the situation weren't so serious, I'd probably laugh.

It takes a moment, but a soft _click_ murmurs from the porcelain, and one of the tiles behind us swings open. A passage. It's not very big and we'll have to crawl, but it's there, in all its tiny glory.

"How the hell did you find that?" Zelda asks.

Max rubs the back of his neck. "Dropped my shaver."

He dropped his shaver and accidentally found a passageway out of the palace. There are no words.

"It leads out of the grounds to an addition just outside of town. About thirty minutes crawl and walk."

It's a tight time squeeze, but it's better than not going. I roll up my sleeves. "Let's go."

Max goes first at my insistence. I want him to pave the way for us, and if this is a trap, at least he'll get the brunt of it. I go next, and Zelda goes last, using her phone torch to brighten the sloping passage as we get further and further from the entrance. Good thing I'm not claustrophobic or else I don't know how I could stand the brown, damp walls shut tight on all my sides or the stale air that saws through my lungs.

After what seems like forever, the passage opens up to a sharp descent that forces us to jump down. Max offers me a hand – just like my palms, his are scratched and callous and bitten with loose gravel – and I land with a hard thud on firmer rock. Here there are other passages that would've converged together, but all of them are bricked shut.

All but one.

When we reach the end of this corridor, Max feels around the wall. "Just a second."

He pushes a brick in, and the brick wall besides us recedes. It's not the sunlight that stings, but a pungent stench, and it takes me a moment to adjust to see we've come into a large sewer pipe, where muddy water flows just a foot away from us.

"Up here." Max isn't fazed, pointing to a ladder to the surface. We climb up as he pushes open the manhole cover, to the vast world above.

I pop my head up to scan my surroundings. Oh boy, are we not at the palace anymore. I can barely see it, towering on the hills in the distance, from the thick brown bushes that surround us on all ends.

Zelda emerges behind and gawps. "Holy hell, how did we walk so far in so little time?"

"I think it's a direct route," Max says.

"Now what?" I turn to him. "You go anywhere?"

He looks hesitant again, but some part of him must win as his whole body droops. "This way."

Out of the bushes we come to a small housing estate, the apartments towering above us with grey and graffitied brick, separated by wide roads with three lanes per side. The noise is a shock too – the palace is so close and yet I hear none of the city din, the car horns or the chatter or the clack of shoes on the sidewalk. Max takes empty side alleys to a set of four garages, all bolted up, the front tarmac cracked and sprouting weeds. He takes a key from his jacket pocket and slots it into the last, dented garage, and slides open the door with a grunt.

Inside there's a beat-up car and not one, not two, but _three_ motorcycles. They're not new, none of them, but they are maintained, well-oiled, painted in gunmetal grey and silver and a black as dark as coal. The license plates are all out-of-province. _Atlin,_ I realise, his home province.

"These are all yours?" Zelda sputters.

"Yeah."

"You own this garage too?"

"Is it that surprising?" he asks in retaliation, a shine of emotion other than awkwardness. For that, he meets my eye, and for that, I don't know if I want to answer. In reality, I barely know him, but this feels like a stark wake-up call to the real Maximus Wellington.

"How did you get all this here?" Zelda spins sharply. "These are all Atlin plates, but—"

"I had friends bring them up for me," he says at the same time his car bleats with the key sound. "Come on. We should go."

 _We should not interrogate me,_ he instead seems to say. My suspicion levels are off the chart. What sort of friends would bring all these vehicles to him _from Atlin?_ That's a several hour drive down the west coast, at least.

Nonetheless, I hop into the car with Zelda at my side. Max cranks the engine – it's a powerful roar that purrs up my spine with anticipation. He dips the car into the street and leaves for a moment to relock the garage.

Zelda seizes my arm. "This guy has _suspicious_ spilling out of his ears, Gail," she says fast and low. "Are you sure we can trust him?"

There's nothing we can do now. We're here, he's taking us to the try-outs, and we've got a game to win.

He jumps back into the car and suddenly we're off. It's a manual car – I haven't ever been in one, but Max is an expert, throwing it into the right gear, turning at the precise moments, speeding down the lanes and weaving through the other cars on the highway. Even though he doesn't know where he's going, and he swears softly at every single small thing, he's a natural. Like he was born with a wheel in his hand.

Glendale Ice Rink comes into view. They've turned on the spotlights for the event so the whole complex ablaze with sharp beams that hide the rundown walls. My heart leaps into my throat at the sight of a handful of people waiting outside. Some I recognise from the other try-outs.

Max drives us into a space and shuts the engine off, turning back to us. "So… we're here?"

"Yep." I fix my wig and glasses in the mirror – for a moment I catch Max' startled expression at my changed appearance. "You can wait here if you want."

"You _will_ wait here," Zelda corrects. She rummages in her duffle bag and hands him a hairy ball of platinum blond. A wig. There's a pair of aviators, too. "Put this on. Don't want anyone to recognise you."

Max regards the wig with a wince, but reluctantly slides it over his rough cut of dark brown hair. The wig brushes his shoulder and the aviators consume half his face. "How long will you be?"

Zelda glares at him again and gets out of the car. "A few hours. Come on, Gail."

She slams the car door shut, and as she waits outside, I'm overwhelmed with a feeling of gratitude. "Erm…" The circumstances don't afford me a lot of time, so I keep it short. "Thank you, Maximus. I appreciate it."

"Max," he says. "Don't worry about it." That small, cute smile again. If my heart weren't already beating like crazy, it would now.

"Okay."

I get out the car. Into my other life.

Rose is waving at us at the entrance. Her hair is a big, bold afro today, dotted with flowers to match her floral dungerees. No way would I look at her and think she was going for hockey try-outs.

"Hi hello you two! You're super late! They're starting in ten!"

"Yeah, sorry." Zelda jabs a thumb my way. " _She_ took ages. Again."

"Is that your boyfriend?" Rose asks, eyes on me as she nods her head to the car. To Max.

I go red. "Oh, no— he's my friend. A male friend."

"It's complicated," Zelda whispers, smirking at me.

"Whatever he is to you, it's nice that he supports your hobbies," Rose chirrups. "You should invite him inside! They're letting people in to watch. If I'd have known, I would've asked my family to come. My sister is desperate to see me play." She fans herself. "I mean, I guess I'm glad that they're not here actually, because if I didn't make it through, or if I fell over, or if I smacked into Miss Strike or something, I'd never live down the embarrassment!"

That explains a large amounts of people milling around. They must be friends, family of the trial-goers, all come to offer their support. If Max comes inside, we can keep an eye on him – guarantee he isn't running off to connive with rebels or something.

I wave at him. Max seems startled at first, before he comes out, locks his car and skulks over, hands in pockets.

"THIS IS GEORGE!" I yell, before Max can say anything. "Yes, George, this is Rose, who is a good friend of _Susanetta and Linkle._ Us. Right? Okay?"

His face betrays none of the bewilderment he surely must feel. "Hello."

"Hello!" Rose shakes his hand. "Your hair is cool! Like a surfer dude!"

"… Thanks."

"He just had laser eye surgery," Zelda says suddenly. "That's why he's wearing sunglasses."

"Wow, laser eye surgery!" Her head tilts. "Should you really be driving?"

"Probably not," he says.

Rose laughs. "Well, at least you all got here in one piece. Let's go inside."

I lag behind with Max, taking his arm. "Please just roll with it."

He nods once. "Are you Su or is she Su?"

"I'm Su."

"Okay."

I'm glad that's all that needs to be said.

At the desk, Max is whisked away to the spectator's area as Zelda heads to the manager's lounge and Rose and I go to the changing rooms. It's bustling already with girls I recognise from the previous try-outs, and others I don't at all. One face strikes out to me the most – the captain, the centre, from our last game, the one who snipped at Zelda for being too aggressive.

Now that I can get a better look at her, I'm intimidated to my bones. She's a huge bodybuilder, with muscles rippling from every piece of flesh. By her features she's Hispanic, with brown skin and a tapered cut of dark, slick hair. You could probably fit two of me in her jersey.

She turns at that exact moment, and our eyes lock. Her upper lip curls, but nothing more.

I turn back to Rose. Oh god. I have to compete against _her_ for a place. She must be so glad Zelda is gone. Maybe betting I'll be next.

Rose glances at Centre too and gulps. "Gosh, it's that centre again. She's huge."

"I know."

"How do we beat her?"

"I don't know." I frown. "If we can't beat her…"

"Let's hope we're put on the same team to join her…" At least she seems to favour the centre position, different from Rose's goalkeeper and me in literally anything else.

Whistles blow. Everyone turns to the linesman and Bellona, who fly towards us on the ice, Bellona's hair fluttering behind. Her simple purple pantsuit is so commanding, so regal, that just her presence could snag all the attention in the room.

"Good evening, everyone. Thank you for your patience. We'll now begin the first round of the final try-outs for the Angeles All-Stars second team. I hope you're brought your A game today, because we'll be looking for the best players to keep. We want to see you take initiative, use your heads, play smart and fast. Can you do that?"

We chorus with an enthusiastic _yes,_ but I don't feel it so much. I'm terrified that my journey will end here. That all this will be for naught.

As Bellona goes through the rules again – a simple full match with more substitutions than normal – and sorts our teams I search the seats for my friends. Zelda is with the other managers, already chatting animatedly. Is she already talking strategy? Maybe buttering them up? Plugging me? It's hard to tell, though the hard line of Zelda's forehead is a good indicator.

Amongst a cluster of civilian spectators, Max sits alone, his blond wig and aviators a beacon amongst the normal-looking, not-wearing-sunglasses-indoors faces. He gives me a little wave as I skate onto the ice to warm up. I have to resist waving back. No distractions. Especially not from someone who may or may not be evil.

After warm-ups, Rose squeezes my arm. "Hey, we can rock this, Susanetta. We will. Right? Say you'll give it your all?"

"Of course I will, as long as you will too."

She lets out a puff of determination. "I'm going to blow Miss Strike's socks off! … Gently!"

She takes her goalie place. In that moment I recognise that Centre has been put on the other team, the Blue team, as, obviously, the centre again. Of course, life isn't easy for me. That means I'm going head-to-head with her to steal the puck, and without Zelda's direction, a wash of helplessness overcomes me.

 _No, I can't think like this._ I clutch my hockey stick. _I can totally do this._

I don't need Zelda telling me what to do. I have my gut.

"Ready?" the linesman calls. He glances to Bellona's perch to confirm, and with one nod of her head, and no objections from the rest of us, the whistle blows. "Begin!"

I shoot off. In defence, I have to make sure no one goes near Rose, but it's a hard enough job already when every single opponent is twice my height and thrice my weight. When the puck edges closer, I snap into action, batting it to my teammates at the other side of the field. Our centre barks orders, and I follow to the T, putting trust in her judgement.

Evil Centre intercepts the puck from a Red and barrels towards me. I zip forwards, and our sticks clash so hard it wobbles up my arm. She's strong – I can tell by the way she doesn't waver at my presence. I bolt around, dipping the toe in for the puck— she blocks, swerves away— I clash with her again.

The puck is mine. Victory tastes so, so good.

For a second.

I go to pass to my teammates when suddenly Centre is in front of me, and the only thing I see is blue. Suddenly I'm spinning out of control, almost walloping into the side of the rink as Centre approaches Rose.

I right myself just in time to see her take a shot. Rose thwacks her stick down. The puck bounces off and skitters to the wall.

"Yes!" I cheer.

Centre's face is obscured by the helmet, but oh boy do I smell her aura of frustration. Aimed entirely at me. I'm not sure why – Rose did all the work there – but she doesn't hesitate to glare at me before returning to position as the other defenceman reclaims the puck for us.

After another five minutes of intense play, it suddenly dawns on me that I've never played for this long, this seriously. I never got the chance to practice fully at home, with a half-rink, and I was never permitted to play long games whenever we went to rinks outside. This is like the staff games times by a thousand. My bones are shaking, my muscles are screaming.

"Time!" the linesman calls. "Take fifteen, ladies!"

That was the longest twenty minutes of my life. I skate over to Rose, who sags from all the blocks she had to make. They definitely shot more than we did, especially Centre. "How are you feeling?"

"Exhausted." Like that wasn't obvious. "What about you? You were dotting about all over the place tailing that centre. You were so brave going against her!"

Me, tiny as a toothpick, against her, as large as a whale and as intimidating as a dragon. A dragon-whale? That seems to fit.

I shrug. "It has to be done."

We both head to the benches to cool off. I sneak a peek at Zelda, who again, isn't looking at me, too focused on management. This time she seems to be the one doing all the talking, as the others in their suits and ties listen intently, occasionally flick their glance to the rink, to us. Bellona is listening too, and I really hope that's a good sign. Max is still there, miraculously awake amongst some of the snoozing spectators. Once again he gives me a little wave in acknowledgement, and this time, I wave back.

"Don't look back," Rose says suddenly, "but the centre— she's coming over!"

 _Oh heck, oh heck._

I can feel the water I've drank redirect to my armpits. I _feel_ her presence first, ballooning the goosebumps along my skin, until her shadow engulfs me from behind.

"Hey. What's your name?" says a deep, baritone thunder.

I turn. Oh god, she's so much taller when she's next to me. Now I get a really good look at her eyes – intense, alight, lightning that strikes upon the ground with no mercy.

"Er. Susanetta Vivas? What's yours?"

"Felice Torres." She crosses her arms. "Your turns are too wide."

It's like she tripped me up. "I-I'm working as hard as I can."

"I just think you should reconsider your position here. This isn't child's play. This is a serious sport."

"We're the second team. We're playing for fun."

Captain's laugh booms across the benches. "Why do you think Bellona Strike came back to revive the team? Because the sport here is dying. The rink is on verge of bankruptcy. If we don't gain some clout, we lose this place, and we lose the Angeles All-Stars for good."

Rose makes a little gasp as I physically rear back.

"Lose them? You mean… even the first team?"

"Even the first team. They have plans to disband. There's no support for them anymore." She grunts, blowing from her nose like a buffalo. "That's why it's up to this team. Whoever gets to be part of the Angeles All-Stars _has_ to be able to pull their weight." She fires a fierce look at me – only me. "Think about that before you get back on the rink."

Then she's stalking away, leaving me speechless, winded, and hurting in my heart. The Angeles All-Stars might not be the best team, but to go to the point of _disbanding?_ That would disappoint so many people. That would disappoint me. I can't even joke about not liking the All-Stars anymore if there is no All-Stars to joke about.

"Wow, I…" Rose trails off. "To close the rink? Really? I've been coming here since I was a little girl. They can't do that. Can they?"

I guess they can. If this is the All-Stars base of operations, and the All-Stars don't exist, there's no need for the place to be here anymore. They could shut it down and build apartments instead. At least that would bring in money.

 _Think about that before you get back on the rink._

It's a thinly-veiled warning. Almost a threat. _You shouldn't play for the team,_ it says. She's made her judgement about me, and that's enough for her to think I'm not good enough. The thought swells an angry, burning sensation in my chest – that she could dare decide such a thing for me, for management. I _want_ to play for the team. I _want_ the team to be successful. My turns are too wide, okay, but her shots aren't straight, her knees aren't bent enough, and sometimes she loses control of the puck when she juggles it with the toe. I'm not perfect, but neither is she.

"I think you play great," Rose says in a small voice.

"Thanks, Rose," I say, "but I already knew that."

I glare hard at Felice Torres. She's not looking at me, and if she was, I would turn away immediately and without shame, but for this moment, I feel a tiny smidgen of power over her.

Back on the rink, Bellona calls our attention. She makes a few substitutions, benching three people. I'm safe. For now.

"Good game so far, ladies. That was an aggressive first half for the Blues. Especially for Torres" – she looks at Felice, because of course – "Red team, step it up. And Defence Vivas?"

It takes me moment to register 'my' surname.

"Oh! Yes, ma'am?"

"Swap with Blumenthal, the left wing. I want you on the front lines."

I catch Zelda's eye in the stands, and she nods. This must be her doing. Before I was only blocking Felice, but now I'm downright fighting against her. Is Zelda nuts? Reluctantly I switch with Blumenthal and ready for the next period to begin.

The whistle blows. I have to be more offensive now, obviously, so I shoot forwards to aid the Red centre, who has taken control of the puck. This time play seems much more balanced, much less skewed to the Blue team, where now I have the puck for the good majority of the period. It's no secret I'm small. The players take advantage of my stature, bashing me to the side when I'm in possession and spinning me into the walls, but undeterred, I power on with zeal. I'm not afforded large opportunities to celebrate my scores, no matter how many I get against the Blues or Felice, but I do a mini _yay!_ in my head each time I beat the opposing goalie. Rose is on fire too, blocking goals left and right. Even one that flies off the ground.

From a face-off I get the puck again, swerving around to head towards the other goal. Defence get in my personal space, so I slide it to my teammate before marching for a free zone to take a shot.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Felice hurling towards me.

Imagine you're tied to the track and there's a train coming. Yeah. It felt like that.

I root myself to the ice as the puck lands in my toe. Felice comes head on, another clash of sticks, another fight for dominance. Sweat cries down my forehead. It's a chess game, all these attempts to out-manoeuvre each other. I poke the puck under her legs and spin to the other side to take it back, surprising her entirely, and make a shot.

Miss. Felice grunts. Is it a good grunt? Is it a bad grunt? Who knows at this point.

"Time!" the linesman calls to my relief. My calves are seizing from working so hard, but I refuse to let them rest, not until I meet Rose back at the benches again for another fifteen.

"That last shot was amazing!" Rose shakes with excitement next to me. "Gosh, you're a shoe-in for the team, Su!"

"I loved that block, when the puck was coming from the right wing? Wow. Such a power move!"

We toss compliments like salad in a bowl and big each other up, and suddenly I really appreciate having someone like Rose here. Someone who supports me with her whole heart. A true wingwoman. My eyes divert to the stands for my other wingwoman, but my heart sinks at the sight of Zelda staring straight at me, ignoring her companions. Why? She jerks her head towards the spectator stand.

It's Max. He's disappeared.

My stomach drops into a pit and burns in the core of the earth. Where has he gone? To convene with rebels? In a panic I shoot to stand. I want to run to the stands to find him, see if he really has left, but there's not enough time, and I don't want to look like I'm chickening out now.

"Everything okay?" Rose asks.

"Oh, er." I sit back down, blushing. "Sorry. Not sure what came over me."

"Did you not get my message?"

I freeze at Felice's voice. She approached from behind, no warning. I spin around to see her with her meaty arms crossed.

"What message?"

"Listen, I get you're here for fun. I get this is a game to you. But for the rest of us, this isn't a joke. We _care_ about this rink."

"I never said I didn't care."

"If you did you'd drop out," Felice says, "and let someone else—"

" _Why?_ " I snap. "You don't think my play is good enough?"

"No. You're too wide, and you make too many risks. And no offence, Vivas, but look at you. You're tiny! You'll get knocked out in a second!"

I stifle my retort. Wow. I thought Aderyn was nitpicky, but this is a whole new level.

"T-That's not very fair." Rose comes to stand by my side. "Size doesn't matter. And she plays great."

"You've been knocked around thrice because you didn't turn correctly. And your team is losing."

"Barely!"

"You should leave her alone."

His voice catches me totally off-guard. It's like the two worlds colliding, crashing at full speed. Max leans against the doorway with his hands in his pockets, a severe expression sharp beneath the aviators.

"You shouldn't be here," says Felice. "This is for players only."

"I came to talk to Susanetta. She's playing really well. It's not like you didn't lose the puck once or twice."

"This doesn't concern you."

"It does when you're mad for no reason. Tch. Don't be so pathetic." He jerks his head at me. I can't get up and leave fast enough, even to Felice's muttering.

Wow, standing up to Felice? That's pretty hot. I follow until we're most definitely alone. The lines of his face have softened so that they're not so scary anymore.

"Thank you," I say. "It wasn't necessary, but thank you."

"Sorry, I probably shouldn't have intervened, but…" He shakes his head, jaw tightening. "It's just stupid that she's picking on you. You haven't done anything to her."

"Exactly. She's just mad…" I think of the rink, of the team on the edge of disbanding, and guilt prickles through my pride. It's no excuse to mess with me, but… I guess it's coming from a place of concern.

Max rubs his hands together. So he hadn't snuck out to see rebels. Only to see me.

"What are you doing here?"

"I… I just…" He laughs suddenly. "I just can't fathom that you're a top player in an ice hockey team. I had no idea. You're… you're simply amazing."

I startle at the admission, then go red. It's a small, easy compliment, but one that is genuine, and one that I appreciate with every fibre in my heart.

"Thank you. That's… that's really kind of you. But I haven't made any team yet, and if I am to do that, you have to keep this, _everything,_ a secret. No telling the other boys. No telling your valet. Heck, no telling the horses in the stables. Promise?"

I offer my pinkie.

He stares at it. One second passes. Two.

"Do you… know what a pinkie swear is?"

"I know." His cheeks rosy. "It's just… I haven't done one since I was a kid."

"Well, they're a perfectly legitimate means of assuring confidence, no matter what age." I shake it. "Do you swear?"

He entwines his pinkie with mine. I guess it's our secret now.

 _And yet I still have so many questions about him._

He leaves shortly after as the match resumes for the final twenty-minute period. No swaps this time, and Bellona makes no comment towards anything, so I hope that means she's satisfied with the previous change to my position. Or maybe I have yet to prove I'm good enough for it.

I take a breath. _You've got this, Gail._

We take off. I bring all my might, all my power, into every shot, every pass, every push of my skates across the ice. My confidence grows as I score for the Reds, as I repossess the puck, as I (totally unintentionally, ahem) grate on Felice's last nerves by winning clashes against her more than I lose them. I don't win everything, I don't score all the time, and maybe my turns are too wide and when someone bashes into me I go skidding, but I'm definitely not the worst player, and I'm not as bad as Felice is making me out to be. The third period proves to be the most difficult yet, but it speeds along like the puck, and soon, the linesman calls the game.

We mutter and titter between ourselves. I go to Rose, but we don't exchange words – only nervous glances as Bellona, Zelda and the rest of the management discuss amongst themselves. It seems like forever until all of them come down to the rink, Zelda waiting at the wall as Bellona and the rest skate towards us.

"Well done, all, that was some excellent play. The Blues came out victorious, but only by two goals, and that itself says to me that we have a high-skilled set of players here today. We can't take you all, but we do have a lot to deliberate as we choose who to select moving forwards."

 _Am I in or not?_ I want to yell.

"We'll contact you individually with the results of the final try-outs soon. Whether you succeed or not, however, please know that all of your efforts today were admirable." She makes one meaningful pause that kills any hope for a result today. "Thank you for coming. Safe journeys home, and I hope to see some of you back here."

That's it. She skates back to the wall to talk with Zelda, leaving the rest of us a writhing pit of desperation. Torres immediately zips back to the benches, but not without shooting me a look of loathing, and the rest soon follow. Rose and I linger for Zelda, Rose skating in circles as she fumbles with her gloves.

"I can't believe she's not telling us now! How am I supposed to cope every time I get an email notification? Oh, Su. This is horrible."

"I guess she doesn't want to tell us who's going home in front of everyone?"

"… Oh, actually, _that_ would be horrible. Thank goodness."

We meet Zelda at the benches with the same apprehension pulling taut her cheeks.

"She said she'd get back to me." She tugs at her blonde hair. "I couldn't read her expression for a dime. I have _no_ idea if I'm in or not."

"And us?" I press.

"They all said good things about you both. One of the management dudes was all 'Lamb's goalkeeping is the best I've seen from an amateur in years'."

Rose lights up. "Really? Me? Oh!" She jumps up and down in a giddy dance. "That's so nice of them!"

"For you, Su…" Zelda winces. "Well, they noted you were small compared to everyone else."

My brows furrow. That's… not great.

"Otherwise I couldn't get a good read on them about you. I think they were aware to keep it under wraps around me, being your sister and all."

Which is annoyingly fair. I glance to the stands where the group is still talking now, lips moving like fluid. What are they saying? If only I could hear just a fragment of their conversation…

After the showers, we head back to the lobby to meet Max. Rose gives us both big hugs.

"I really, really hope we all make it. It's been really fun getting to know you both. I hope I get to call you teammates."

"Me too!" I say. Rose gives us one last hug before leaving.

Then it's only Zelda, Max and I.

"So, chauffeur?" Zelda says to Max. "What did you think?"

He ponders for a moment before settling on, "Electric," which sets a few of my nerves on fire. We wait to be signed out of the lobby as an attendant scratches the names off the list.

"Oh, you two!" She says, looking up at us. "Do you remember we asked you to bring ID for us? We can't officially welcome you to our club if you don't have it."

Darn. ID! I completely forgot!

Zelda must have too, as she splutters. "We, er, don't have any on us right now—"

"Then you must send it to us immediately. It could jeopardise your place on the team. Wouldn't want that, would we?"

For two fake people that don't exist? No, we wouldn't.

Only until we're in the car and Max is revving the engine does Zelda release her panic. "Shit, Gail, I completely forgot— and I have to get a parental signature because I told them I wasn't eighteen yet!"

"I could ask someone in the palace?"

"And risk your brother finding out? Hell no!" She's so jittery that I know how much this means to her, too. "Crap. What do we do?"

"I can get you some ID."

Max's quiet voice pierces our frenzy. He pulls out into the road and makes no other indication that he spoke other than a glance in the rear-view mirror.

"Wait. _You_ can get us some ID?"

"Sure. I know people."

My eyes narrow. "What's the catch?"

"No catch?" he says, confused. "If you need fake ID, I can get you some. No problem."

"How though?"

He shrugs. You know. Because that answers everything.

 _Who_ is _this guy?_

"You can't just _shrug your shoulders_ and expect us to take it," Zelda says with a sharp tone. "What, you in with the mafia or something? You a drug dealer?"

"No! No. I just… know the right people."

"The right people will want a price," Zelda says.

"Well, the Selection's paying me a healthy amount. I'll just use that." He pauses. "All I need is photos. Wigs and glasses on, obviously."

But where will those photos go? To whom? "Is it… safe?"

"Yeah. I trust these people," says Max. "They won't do anything. They probably won't even recognise you."

"You're not even going to tell us who these people are?" Zelda begins.

I put a hand on her arm. _He's doing us a favour, so let's leave it for now,_ the gesture says. He's obviously protective over whatever… _this_ is, this strange alter ego of his, if he's unwilling to elaborate more than this. Max is like the moon – we've been seeing his light side for the longest time, but there's a dark side there, too. Hiding.

Zelda relaxes, but not entirely. She doesn't trust Max, and that's okay – I'm not sure I do – but for now he's on our side. I want to believe he is.

We drive back to his garage, lock the car back up, and head down the manhole to the sewers. Max knows the bricks to push that spark old mechanisms to let us through. Soon enough, after another painful crawl through the tunnel, we're back in his bathroom. In his bedroom, we discard our wigs and shove them into bags. The TV is playing through a reel of commercials, and darkness tumbles through open curtains. It's late. Very late.

"Thank you." I turn to Max and look him straight in the eye, so he knows how genuine I am. "Thank you for everything."

"You're welcome."

"And you better not talk," Zelda warns for the last time. "Because I swear, I'll ruin you if you spill the secret to anyone."

He shrugs. "There's no one to tell. It's safe with me."

I can name plenty of people who'd like to know. My brother, or the rest of my family. Bellona Strike. Rudy or Durante. Heck, I bet Felice would eat this up like a good KFC. But it's the sentiment I latch onto, and I give his hand a squeeze.

He doesn't really seem to know what to do. The surprise that raises his thick eyebrows eventually melts into a flicker of confusion, then another one of his rare, gentle smiles. The touch must be foreign to him enough that it makes me think he doesn't get a lot of hugs. We're not at hugging level yet, though. He gives my hand a squeeze back, and I let go.

We leave him be and Zelda and I part in the hallway. I'm not sure what they'll make of her return so late, but Max's involvement should absolve her from any blame. I tread back to my quarters as fatigue settles quaintly in my limbs, dragging the movement so much more than it needs to be.

I get back to my room with no fanfare, and I shove my duffle bag beneath my bed, wash, change, and fall into the bed. Its cosiness envelops me instantly and sleep spider-webs all through my body.

And when I finally do fall asleep, I dream of winning.

* * *

 **A/N:** Will Gail and co. get into the All-Stars? More importantly, is Max to be trusted? You decide...

As always, reviews/ favourites/ follows/ chocolate chip cookies appreciated. Thanks for reading!

~ GWA

NTT: "No offence Gail, but you suck."


	19. The Waiting Game

Blank screen.

I huff, toss my cell onto the pillow, lie down and stare at the pink canopy that shrouds my bed.

Then I check it again. Blank screen.

It's been this way for a week now. The days are stretching that I'm forgetting time, even though every second of my life is jammed with Selection business, or meetings, or princess duties, or playing with Tay. Or, or, or. But the only thing that occupies my heart right now is my phone, and the blank screen.

 _When will Bellona contact me?_

 _Am I in the Angeles All-Stars?_

It's torture. I don't know how anyone stands it – how actors await the response from their auditions tapes, or students ponder on whether their grades are good enough for college. I haven't had to do any waiting my whole life. Things are instant for a princess.

But I bottle my impatience. There's been no news for me, but there hasn't for Zelda or Rose either. The All-Stars are taking their sweet, sweet time deliberating, and for now the only thing I can do is helplessly pass the time going to class and going on dates. These last few have been so comically boring that I think I might be in a sitcom. Selected, whose names I don't even remember, bore me to tears in their attempts to woo me and so, despite Roy's words to cool it with eliminations, I cut the number down. Twenty. Itchingly close to halfway already.

Restless, I resolve to put my phone on charge and go do something else with my day. It's a weekend, so no class, and I'm certainly not going to work on Cami's multiple (yes, multiple) assignments on the caste system of old. Instead, I wander towards the Selected wing and hope something, or someone, can distract me for a few hours.

At the end of the hallway I'm surprised to see someone's door propped open. There's a grunting noise, distinctly female, that I immediately recognise as Zelda before I curiously step around to see.

Parker Zaleski's room is a mess of clothes, art supplies, and random knickknacks occupying every available surface. A pile of notebooks takes up half the vanity table, next to a pot of murky grey water, and I swear there's even a paint stain that streaks down the side of his (very expensive) desk. To the left, however, is the giant TV screen fixed on the wall, where Parker and Zelda are bundled together on mismatched beanbags, controllers in hand, glued to the split screen of a first person shooter. Bewildered, I step inside, but both are so focused on the video game that they don't even notice.

"Three ahead," Zelda exclaims. "Watch my ass!"

Parker's avatar spins and despatches an ugly, hunched creature with blood dripping from its mouth. A zombie. "Got it! One on your left!"

"That's the wall!"

"Your other left!"

"That's my _right_ , numbskull!"

They both shoot wildly, madly – but a bullet hits Zelda's character, whacking off a chunk of her health, and a sudden zombie attack from behind finishes her off.

"Damn it, Parker! You were supposed to watch!"

"I warned you!" he protests. "There was a hoard coming from my six!"

" _I'm_ building the Fusion Loader Weapon! You have to protect me!"

"The what?" I say.

Zelda shrieks. Parker falls off the bean bag. Immediately he scrambles to his feet, bowing, then curtsying, then dusting himself off and doing buttons of his shirt to hide the graphic tee beneath.

"Y-Your Highness, ma'am, my lady, Your Grace! I didn't— how long were you s-standing there?"

"Not long," I say, holding up my hands to placate Parker's extreme attempts of deference. "What are you playing?"

Zelda takes a deep breath and puts the controller down. " _Zombie Hoarder 5: Five Times the Zombies_." She glares at Parker. "But we can't beat the third wave because _someone_ keeps forgetting about the Fusion Loader Weapon!"

"Why do _you_ always get to build the Fusion Loader? Why can't _I_ be the one to build it?"

"Because you're the better shot and we need your sniping skills or else we're doomed. Well," she scoffs, "you're _supposed_ to be the better shot."

His faces scrunches in that adorable puppy sort of way. "Can you 360-no-scope at three feet? Didn't think so!"

Apparently this is an insult to the highest degree, as Zelda sinks further into her beanbag and crosses her arms, grumbling.

Honestly, I'm surprised the two of them know each other at all. "When did you meet?"

Parker offers me the beanbag to sit, and I take it, if only to relieve him of his obvious anxiety. It smells like him, the beanbag – a rich scent of shampoo.

"A-About a week ago I was playing video games with Jasper in the Men's Parlour, and then Miss Zelda came in and… and she started to play with us too."

"Zombie games freak Kingsley out, so we moved here," Zelda says. "Jasper went to get popcorn."

Parker clears his throat. His socks are patterned with superheroes I don't recognise and he draws circles with his toes.

"D-Do you… do you want to, m-maybe, have… have a go?"

"Oh, well…" I pick up the controller. "I don't know how to play."

"Sure! I-I can show you. If you want."

I smile at him and scooch over so we can share the beanbag. "Yes please."

Oh boy, does Parker get the blushies real bad. I thought I was forever burdened with the Schreave blushies, but there must be a Zaleski curse too, because it's a deep red that ripples all across his face – not only his cheeks, but his forehead, ears and neck, too. He hesitantly dips down between me and Zelda and starts pointing out all the buttons. In my peripheral vision, Zelda rolls her eyes.

Once Parker is finished stuttering an explanation, he asks, "Get it?"

"I don't remember anything."

"Pffft." Zelda waves at him. "Press the right trigger to shoot. That's all you need."

Parker frowns. "I-I don't think—"

"Let's get into a game!"

In an abandoned hotel, the zombies lumber in slowly, and Zelda despatches them without warning. I manage to shoot one in the foot, and I consider that a great accomplishment, and so I say, "yay!" to Zelda's intense eye roll.

After a few waves, the game ups the ante. "Why are there so many now?" Already I'd be dead without Zelda. Without Parker even, who gently coaches me through the buttons.

"Y-You can use potions. To heal." Warily, he presses my finger to one of the bumpers. "See? Your health went up."

"Oh. So it did. Thank you!"

He snatches his hand back with a high-pitched laugh. I think he knows how awkward he's acting, but doesn't know how to stop it. The moment of distraction allows a zombie to crawl up to me and take a great, big bite out of my neck.

 _DEAD,_ flashes on screen.

"Oh." That was quick.

Zelda groans. "No offence Gail, but you suck."

"I-It's her first game, cut her some slack," Parker offers, even though that's just a very nice way of saying that I do, indeed, suck. "Maybe we could play something else? How about _Super Smash Brothers Melee?"_

"Okay. No items, Fox only, Final Destination."

Parker frowns. "… Maybe not."

Because that makes sense.

"Don't you have any nice, happy games where the objective isn't to kill things or each other without mercy?"

A new voice enters the fray. "Nah. Zelda isn't able to channel her inner turmoil and frustration into farming simulators."

Jasper's voice makes me jump into Parker. Today he wears an orange suit with a black spider web pattern – preparing waaaaay in advance for Halloween – and holds a bowl of popcorn. Freshly popped, if the buttery smell is anything to go by.

Zelda whips around. "What are you spouting now?"

"Just that you're unable to express your feelings in a healthy, sustainable way and as such, use violent video games as an outlet for your bottled emotions."

"… Shut up, Jasper."

Jasper just smiles as he plonks himself next to me. We're a tight squeeze on two beanbags, and Jasper's added presence pushes me against Parker, and Parker against Zelda.

"You're so heavy," she mutters under her breath.

"S-Sorry."

"Why don't we watch a scary movie instead?" Jasper offers. I guess it fits with his outfit choice for today. "That way, we're only bystanders to another person's brutal suffering."

"That's convincing," Zelda snorts. "Any objections?"

"I object!" I crow, shrugging myself onto the floor in front. "I don't like scary movies!"

"Then how about" – Jasper grins, and it's like Satan himself inhabits him – "a scary story?"

I frown. I'm… not in a scary mood. At all. But as usual, Zelda reads me like a book and cackles.

"Gail looks scared as hell. I'm in."

Parker intervenes again. "I-I'm not sure—"

"I don't think you're mentally prepared for it." Jasper reaches a hand to stroke the game console. Yes, stroke. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Why? Is it a true story?" I whisper.

"True? Your Highness, it's no more fiction than you or I."

Gulp.

"It starts with a hacked game. A young, foolish boy – let's call him Brett – is thirteen years old, new to the Internet and just getting into the game-hacking scene. He reads a guide online and decides to prank his younger brother, Casper, by changing the protagonist's name in _Zombie Hoard 3: Thrice the Splice_ to match Casper's."

"That's not very scary at all," Zelda says through a snort.

"Maybe not yet." He fixes a blank gaze to me.

Suddenly I'm terrified.

"Brett smugly makes all these changes and replaces the cartridge in his brother's console. Nothing looks different. Nothing seems different. No, it's just a harmless way to poke fun and maybe freak out the younger Casper. Or so he thinks."

"Still not scared," says Zelda.

"I-I am," Parker says quietly. "What happens next?"

Jasper promptly stands and wanders to the door, closing it slowly so that it creaks, that the light from the hallway dulls.

"When Casper booted the game, Brett waited behind the sofa to watch and snicker. We're transported to the abandoned gas station, to the intrepid hero and the sickly professor you must protect. _You have to defeat all these zombies, Casper,_ the text reads. Casper jerks in surprise. Brett is still snickering until the voice acting catches up… and the voice says _Casper._ "

"But how?!" I ask.

Jasper smiles. Then he shuts the lights on and off.

"The game seems to glitch. In the house, the lights flicker. _What's going on?_ Casper bleats. Then the professor character looks directly at Casper. _You must defeat the zombies, Casper,_ she says. A hand reaches through the screen."

The lights settle on dark. I hear a muffle. Jasper sits besides us, whispering.

"It's a clawed, sick hand. A zombie. Casper shrieks, but blinded by darkness, he runs and topples over the sofa, right into Brett. _Help me!_ Casper screams. _I don't understand,_ Brett yelps frantically, _I only edited one thing in the game!_ But the zombies are crawling out of their screen now, hundreds of them piling into their small living room. The pair try to escape, but they're grabbed by the legs. There's too many to run now. They drag Brett and Casper through the screen, into the game, never to be seen again…

"STATIC."

I shriek. Parker jumps and knocks me over.

"When the parents return, there's nothing left of Brett and Casper. There's only the screen, full of static, and the blinking light of the console that devoured their children."

Silence.

"Thanks, I hate it," grunts Zelda, eventually being the one to turn on the lights again. The popcorn has spilt over Parker's carpet.

"T-That can't be true!" I say, rubbing my shoulder from Parker's collision. "T-That's not possible!"

Jasper shrugs. "Believe it or don't. What you choose to do next…" he eyes the console, "is up to you."

I put the controller down and scoot as far as I can away.

"So." Jasper retrieves the abandoned controller. "Who wants a game?"

"I-I'm good, thank you." Then I bolt from the room.

A distraction I may want, but… maybe I don't need to be _that_ distracted.

* * *

In the afternoon, I decide to head to the half-rink, thinking that maybe I can take my mind off unresponsive phones and scary stories with practice. If I do get in, I'll need to be better than I was in the try-outs, and there isn't a better place to hone my skills than on the ice itself. Work on my, as Felice would probably put it, _wide turns_ that cause too frequent number of collisions.

I change into joggers and a loose T-shirt and head down to the rink, tying my hair up as Naomi trails behind me. It's quiet all down the hallway until I reach the double doors with reinforced glass windows, where I can hear metal on glass, scraping smooth like ribbon.

The rink is occupied.

I peer inside. Yamato Watanabe is dressed in similar clothes – form-fitting pants and a sweatshirt – but his skates, compared to the ones I normally use, are slim, almost petite things. Built for figure skaters. He glides across the ice, raising his legs and arms, bending his knees, throwing out pose after pose after pose. It's like ballet, but faster, more elegant. His hand curls and fingers flutter.

That must be a routine. I press my nose to the glass. _He's so good,_ I think. His eyes are shut, like he's so enveloped in his own little world. Just him and the ice. I can relate to that, at least, and I push open the door quietly and shut it behind. Naomi waits outside.

Aside from the size, the half-rink is different from the regular one by its shorter walls and the lack of spectator seats that usually form a circle of tiers. Here we only have a basic set-up: benches, equipment storage, and another door that branches off to the private shower rooms. Yamato has laid his things on the bench nearest to me, and I warily take a seat to put on my bulkier hockey skates, trying not to disturb him. Only now can I hear the classical music that lilts from the overhead speakers.

Moving so fast his hair ripples, he builds speed and takes a leap. In the air he spins, rotating as sparkles and ice spiral around him, and lands— he stumbles and falls to the ice with a _thump._ I gasp and shoot up as Yamato finally notices me.

"Y-Your Highness!" he yelps.

"Are you okay?" I call.

"Am I—?" He stands up immediately. "I'm fine."

I skate onto the ice. Hockey skates and figure skates are two very different pairs of shoes, but both manage to travel easily along the ice.

"That will leave a bruise!" I say, totally aware of how much I'm mother-henning. "You didn't hit your head, did you? Do you want me to fetch someone from the infirmary?"

He's rigid still as he says, "No. I'm fine. How long were you there?"

"Only a few moments. You looked so in the zone that I didn't want to disturb you."

"I see." His expression is flat but rough, like sandpaper, and he clears his throat. "I should go."

"Go?" He starts to skate away, and I catch up to him. "But… your routine! It was so good!"

"I fell over," he says, like it's the most _ungood_ thing in the world.

"So? Everyone falls over once in a while." I giddily skate in front of him. "You were so elegant! It was wonderful. No wonder you've won all those awards. It'd be really cool to see you finish the routine!"

"It is finished."

Oh. Somehow I don't think that's true, given that the music track is still playing. He skates back down and that's when I notice a slight bias to his left foot. An old injury, maybe? At the wall, he makes to get out, but I grab his arm to stop him. Keep his attention.

"I just got on the ice. Maybe you want to skate together for a little while?" I grin and waggle my eyebrows. "We can play some hockey together if you want! I'm not that good."

(Definitely lying. I'm pretty good. But that doesn't get boys to stay on the rink.)

He wrinkles his nose like he's smelt something awful.

"Thank you, but… no thank you."

He slips free, sits down and starts to untie his laces. I mean, he's being polite and all, but this is his opportunity to get to know me and for me to get to know him, and he's… turning me down? Did I say something wrong?

Undeterred, I smile brightly and say, "Well, how about you watch me play? I'm just going to practice my turns and you can give me some advice if you have any—"

"No, thank you."

"Oh… okay."

"I'm just tired," he says quickly. He tucks his shoes in his bag and hefts it over his shoulder, then goes to pause the music. It's an abrupt silence that jams into my ears like cotton. "Have fun."

He passes through the door. I wait, thinking maybe he'll return to reconsider at least, but after a moment it's only Naomi who peers through the window with an eyebrow raised. He's not coming back.

 _Odd,_ I think, and I scramble back through the conversation. Maybe he was mad I didn't alert him to my presence immediately? Would it have been better to disturb his routine than watch there like a creep? I admonish myself as I think it back. Maybe it was his funny ankle? It can't be good to train while he's still recovering.

I have more questions, but without the means to get answers, I tuck them safely away for later thought, and start my own training.

* * *

By the time the evening comes around, I've given up all hope that I'll ever get a notification from Bellona.

A sinking feeling in my gut drags my feet as I make my way back to my quarters before dinner. I'm sweaty, tired, still puzzled over my interaction with Yamato, and worst of all, my expectations are totally drained. Maybe she's already told all the people like Felice that they've got in? Maybe she's holding out from telling me because I didn't?

"—absolute nuisance! Surely, Your Majesty, there must be something you can do?"

I halt at the snooty voice around the corner, and I slow to take a look. Roy and Cami are surrounded by a group of maybe ten lords and ladies in sweeping gowns and tuxedos. There's probably some meeting or event going on, given that Roy's wearing his obnoxious fifty-million-gem crown and matching cloak, and Cami too is in her royal regalia, complementing the beet red dress that trails the carpet. But something's wrong. Even with all that pomp and fashion, the pair of them look like two deer caught in front of a freight train.

Roy holds up his hand. He's turned away from me, but I can hear the exasperation.

"We should discuss this over the dinner, Lady Braithwaite. Though I can assure you, the government and I are doing everything in our power to kerb the rebel threat."

Right. Rebels. I feel the Voice's hands on my shoulder then, and I have to shake off the goosebumps before I crane my neck to listen.

Someone scoffs. "With respect, Your Majesty, those politicians are doing nothing! Surely you heard what happened during my annual country club dinner?"

"I did."

"Short-circuiting all the lights and trashing our food supply! The audacity!" he spits. "They're insistent and frequent and a menace upon us!"

Someone else gasps. "They did that to you too, Geoffrey? I'm halfway across the country and the rebels did the same at my charity ball, too! The nerve! Do they even care about the starving children in Africa?"

Others add to the pile of misdeeds. It seems messing with the upper class folks is a common practice. Staging protests outside opera halls and booming vuvuzelas during the arias. Sitting on the porches of town halls and refusing to move, blocking paths for councilmembers. Interrupting speeches, trampling on prized plants, replacing good food for rotten produce, stealing supplies – presumably for their own families, if the Voice is anyone to believe. Harmless, but annoying. My stomach clenches as the list goes on and on. _They really are getting bolder._

"All right, thank you," Roy says, that diplomatic voice coming through. "I really think we'd be more productive if we discussed this over the table."

"But what are you doing about it, sire? You and Ahmed have been discussing this for years now. Surely our prime minister must have a plan? Long-term?"

"It's not that simple," Cami says. "We must tread carefully so as not to start another revolution—"

"Another revolution is already here!"

Roy growls, "Do _not_ interrupt your queen." I've never heard him pull rank like that before. Then he lets out a sigh. "Please finish your thought, Camilla."

"We must tread carefully," Cami begins again, with a new edge, "so as not to start another revolution that ends in the same violence as before. You may _think_ it's already here, but these nuisance acts are nothing in comparison. These can been dealt with civilly."

"I don't think the rebels are being civil when they ruin every aspect of my life."

A chorus of agreements that hums through to my bones. Cami is right, but so is this lord I've never met – nuisance as they are, it's a nuisance that no one should have to put up with.

"Princess Gail! Excellent!"

My attention lands on one of the ladies… who's spotted me peeking. Hiding. She chimes a hearty "Hahah!" and ushers me forwards. "Perhaps you could add to our discussion?"

The procession turns to me, cowering at the wall. I resist the urge to shoot a flat glare as I shuffle my way into view, trying and failing to air my sweaty armpits before I get too close. I must look a sight with my sticky face, dishevelled hair and sodden sports clothes.

"What, er, were you talking about?"

Roy and Cami exchange worried glances. I don't think they intended for me to hear this, any of it.

"The rebels have been… interfering with these good peoples' lives."

"It's been happening for months now!" someone barks. "Months, and nothing has been done!"

 _Months?_ My Selection has barely been two. Even though I know the rebels have been around since before I was born, I can't fathom that this has happened for longer than that. I look between Roy and Cami for some signal or reassuring glance that everything will be okay, but it never comes. Neither can even look me in the eye.

Then my phone buzzes.

I yelp and snatch it from my pocket. I've got a new email. From Bellona Strike.

My heart leaps into my throat and suddenly I'm hyperventilating. Finally, it's here. Finally, the email that could change my life.

"Sorry!" I squeak, knowing how this must look. "Sorry. I just got a, er, text from one of my Selected. It's a meme. Hahah."

"What's a meme?" one of the lords asks.

"I'm surprised the rebels haven't interrupted your Selection yet, Your Highness," someone else says to me. "It's the very definition of something they'd mindlessly hate. Watch out for them."

If only she knew.

By the way Roy sharply gestures to the door to the small dining room, it's clear they've worn at the threads of his patience. "Let's discuss this over dinner. Please."

The attendant opens the door to the smaller dining hall. Places are set, and the cutlery gleams in the evening twilight. It's like the lords and ladies are drawn to the table like flies to UV as they move inside.

"Is there anything you're doing about it?" one man pauses to ask me. "Have you been helping your brother?"

I don't like his tone. _Your brother._ Like I'm still a child. "Yes."

He gives me a strange look, but doesn't object further and heads inside.

Roy massages his temple with his hand. "Sorry about that, Gail. I didn't know you'd be down here."

Even though my heart is wrapped tightly around this email, my head is seated with the conversation. The reality of it, what it means for us. For me. "Months?" I ask him in a whisper. "Is it true?"

"It's been longer than that," Cami says with a frown. She laces her hand with Roy's and tugs him towards the door. "We're working on it. Don't worry."

As the doors shut behind them, conversations burst outwards. It's only a muffle from where I'm standing, but it's a muffle too many.

 _Don't worry,_ Cami's last words echo in my head.

Yeah, right. _Worrying_ is the only thing I can do. I take a deep breath and head down the hallway to put distance between myself, the dining hall, and Naomi somewhere behind. The email pops up brightly on screen and I have to talk myself through all possible reactions.

 _If you get in, be cool about it. If you don't, no big deal._ I can't fuss about it here with all these guards and servants around, but I also can't wait until I'm safely in my quarters, so I open the email.

 _Dear Susanetta,_

 _Bellona Strike would like to extend her invitation to you to join the Angeles All-Stars women's second team._

My mind goes numb. My toes freeze. My legs almost topple beneath me. I don't need to read any more as my blurry feelings make way for joy.

I got in.

* * *

 **A/N:** Yay for Gail! Only good things can come out of this... right? :eye emoji:

This chapter was fun to write! It's got a little bit of everything: Selected shenanigans, hockey shenanigans, and rebel shenanigans (maybe not so much fun for the latter... huehuehue). I finally got to explore some of the other boys, too, like Parker and Jasper, and Yamato. What did you think of them? What's up with Yamato's attitude? And what are Roy and Cami dealing with?!

Thanks for reading and following along, as always. I don't say it much but I really appreciate it when y'all come through, even when I'm having trouble with this story. Much love and cookies.

~ GWA

NTT: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH.


	20. Keeping your Composure

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH.

That's it. That's all I think.

I don't scream out loud or jump for joy. If I do, someone around will automatically assume something's up, and I don't want them to assume anything about me. Especially that I just got into a hockey team. The Angeles All-Stars.

Naomi comes forward with a raised eyebrow. For a moment I forgot she was there. "Everything okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"No! I mean yes! Everything's fine!" Why am I squeaking so much? I clear my throat. I'm still sweaty and horrible from hockey practice, and still frazzled at the news of rebel interference, but both of these things exit swiftly from my head. _I'm in. I'm in!_ "I… need to change. And shower."

"O… kay…" Naomi holds out a hand for me to lead.

I trip and stumble my way to my quarters. Zelda's punishment is over by now, so the moment I'm locked in my room I call her.

" _I got in!"_ she shrieks so loud my ears jangle.

" _Me too!"_

" _AHHHHH!"_

" _AHHHHH!"_

" _Okay. Composure."_ Zelda breathes deeply. " _Shit. Holy shit. I can't believe we did it, Gail! We're part of the Angeles All-Stars!"_

I can barely comprehend it myself. Instead I resign to take deep breath and pinch myself to make sure I'm not dreaming.

"Have you heard from Rose?"

" _Not yet. Shit. You think she got in?"_

"I really hope so." If there's anyone who deserves to make it into the team, it's Rose. She deserves it more than that Felice ever did. "She probably mutes her emails. Doesn't want to scare her in public or something."

" _I'll drop her a text."_ Zelda pauses, then swears a string of unrepeatable cuss words in elation. " _I can't believe we did it!"_

I have to hang up and shower to clear my head. When I return, refreshed and ready, I see a thread of texts floating on my cell screen. All from Rose.

 _Su! I made it! I can't believe it! Did you?_

 _Oh no. Please tell me you did? Don't ignore me!_

 _I'm sorry if I made you feel horrible. I swear you deserve to be on the team! We can protest together? I'm sure it's a misunderstanding on Miss Strike's behalf._

 _Oh, nm! Linkle just texted me, hahah. Congratulations, teammate!_

I shoot a quick reply. _Yay! We made it!_

I made it.

* * *

Even by the next morning, I still haven't quite processed this turn of events in my life. Me. On a hockey team. It's unbelievable, unfathomable, but it's happening. It's real. I spend an unhealthy amount of time rereading the acceptance email, and then another unhealthy amount refreshing the inbox for more news, more actions to take.

A few days ago I sent off my totally-real identification cards over to the All-Stars admin for processing. Max's mysterious contacts came through and he forwarded me all the information I needed, which I then passed on to the rink. The signature he made up – just a squiggle. He even went so far as to acquire us passports, so I wander over to the Selected wing to retrieve them, armed with the good news.

He opens the door after one knock. Now that I'm not in a rush to get out, I take in his room. It definitely smells like him, a musky scent that trickles across my skin. Though lacking in decoration, it makes up for it in dark colour. The entire place is black – black bedsheets, a black rug, black lampshades and even black picture frames that sit lonely on his bedside table. He wastes no time rummaging in his drawers (beneath his supply of boxers, heh) for two deep blue passports. _The Kingdom of Illéa,_ it reads in gold, with the Illéan insignia beneath.

"Your passport," he quirks a smile, "Susanetta Diane Vivas."

A real fake ID. It's impossibly good. Even if I knew what to look for, I wouldn't be able to tell this was fake. My thumb smooths over my face – my dark black pixie wig, my broadened made-up cheeks, my enlarged eyes emboldened by mascara and primer. The only thing missing is my glasses, but even then, I'm unrecognisable.

"Wow, this is… amazing."

He shrugs and then pulls out Zelda's. "Here. You can give this to Lady Zelda."

 _Linkle Wella Vivas._ I raise an eyebrow. "You gave us middle names? Diane and Wella?"

"I thought it would sell it better. Most people have middle names."

I tuck both into my pockets. "Why those names?"

He shrugs again.

"They're not the names of your past girlfriends, are they?"

His laugh is sudden, but rich with mirth. Like if dark chocolate had a sound. "No, nothing like that. It's… it's my mom and step-mom's names. I didn't think it was worth asking if you wanted something else." Before I can dwell on this information, he says, "Congratulations on making it."

"How'd you know?"

"You wouldn't need your passports if you didn't."

"Smart." I hold up a finger. "And you pinkie swear not to tell anyone?"

He holds out his pinkie. "I swear."

We clutch fingers together for a second as if the promise itself weaves through our skin. I know we've already done this before, but there's a new wave of relief that comes this time. This one is serious business, this one means something. When Max lets go, he smirks.

"That's the second pinkie swear I've done in a week after having not done it in years."

I stick out my tongue. "Get used to it."

"Hnn." He shoves his hands back in his pocket, but the defiance of the gesture is ruined by a smile. "If you need a lift anywhere… I can take you. And Lady Zelda. Since we're in this together now."

I know I should still be suspicious about the passports. About where Max goes and who his illustrious contacts are, but right now, I can't find myself to care. I got into a hockey team on my own merit, not my face, and now with this passport I can play for them legitimately, too. Even if the passport itself is not-so-legit.

In the afternoon, we have a history class. Zelda and I privately share a knowing glance with one another even as we divert to our seats, me with Valerian, and her with Kajika. I practically vibrate in my chair – nothing can set me down right now. Nothing.

JJ enters with a swift flourish. Effortlessly good-looking as usual, smelling of a heady wood scent. But it's with a critical eye that he holds a wad of papers up for everyone to see.

"Your essays."

He slaps them down at the respective table. I hear a resounding number of groans. When it comes to me, JJ gives me a particularly conflicted look as the paper lands on my desk. In big red pen at the top it says _C_ – _._

"W-What? A _C minus?"_

He makes no comment as he hands Valerian his essay, and he, too, looks dejected. But at this point, I'd be thrilled to get a B minus like he did.

JJ circles back to the front. "I have to admit I'm disappointed. Most of you scraped by with Cs and Ds, and only Lady Zelda and Mr Santiago came out today with As, and one of them is a historian."

"Twenty-first century though…" Ben says. He's ignored.

I look at Zelda. How the heck did she, who hates these classes and threatens to skip at every opportunity, get an A? How the heck did I, princess of the country, get a _C minus?_ I go still as I think of my ancestors watching down with judging frowns.

"I don't think any of you are taking this class seriously." He sighs and sits on the lip of his desk. "I get it. The Selection is just a competition to most of you, and I know our esteemed princess isn't so callous as to judge you entirely based on your intelligence and ability to argue clear and concise points. However, all of you now represent something bigger than yourself. You represent the country. You are an ambassador. To truly live up to that, to fully embrace your newfound positions, you must understand the cultural and socio-political background of Illéa to inform your decisions for our future.

"One of you may become prince, and a prince must understand the very foundations of the soil he governs. Is that clear?"

There's a grumble of yeses. I sink further into my seat. Sure, JJ may expect these grand things from the Selected, but what about me, who already claims a position as royal? Who flunked this essay so hard I could have farted on the page and got a better grade?

"Mr Obasanjo, Mr Reinhart," JJ announces again, eyeing Kingsley and Soren, "you may get better grades if your essays weren't so blatantly copied from one another. Mr Obasanjo, it's like all your points were the same as Mr Reinhart's except more unnecessarily convoluted. You will both redo them, and this time, you will redo them with me present."

Kingsley's eyes go wide as he swirls in his chair to glare at Soren at the back of the classroom. He seems the epitome of bothered, whereas Soren is the opposite – the sabotage was intentional, and it reflects in the easy, relaxed smile that worms onto his face. Even if he blew his own grade up, the shrapnel caught Kingsley in the crossfire.

Clever. Very clever. I have to admire Soren for making such a gutsy move.

"Our next topic will cover the wars of recent history," JJ says, "so I'm going to hand out textbooks to—"

Suddenly the door swings open. Attentions latch to the little boy who sprints inside. He's a mini replica of JJ and can't be much younger than Tay, with sweeping blonde curls, pale freckled skin and big, curious brown eyes. He ignores the rest of us entirely and makes for JJ.

"Daddy! There you are!"

JJ startles. "Easton! What—" He takes his son by the shoulders just as a plump young woman enters, breathless.

"Easton! Stop running—" She goes rigid at the sight of us, and then at me. "Y-Your Highness! I apologise whole-heartedly for the interruption!"

"Easton," JJ's voice takes on a stern edge, "did you run from Nanny Linda again?"

Easton clutches JJ's legs. "Yes! I want to play with you, not her!"

"H-He runs so fast, the little tyke!" Nanny Linda says between pants, apparently a wall to Easton's bluntness. She takes his hand. "Come now, we don't want to interrupt the lesson further, do we?"

"Yes I do!" Easton digs his heels into the carpet. "I want to stay with Daddy!"

All the boys are giggling by now. Poor JJ, who goes red like a tomato as he attempts to peel Easton from his leg with little success.

"Easton, you have to go back with Nanny Linda."

"Why can't I stay?" He points vaguely in our direction. "I can sit! I behave! Like all the people here!"

"Why do I doubt that?" He sighs. "All right. Tell you what. I'll let you stay at the back of the classroom if you promise to be completely, totally quiet. Not a single sound, Easton."

Easton makes a zip motion over his mouth. "Mmm m mm-mm mmm!"

"All right." He huffs a mute apology to Nanny Linda, who nods cheerily and leads Easton to the back of the class. Then he addresses the rest of us. "Sorry for the interruption, folks. Looks like we have a freeloader in class. My six-year-old son, Easton."

We all laugh. Easton is seated behind Soren and Jeremiah, and Jeremiah ruffles his hair to a fit of Easton's giggles. He's so cute! At six he's definitely younger and shorter than Tay, but he reminds me of him so much, with the puffy cheeks and the accidental outspoken sharpness of his words. True to his promise, he stays silent as the class progresses, though every time I look over he's squirming, like he's desperate to move or talk or stand next to JJ.

When the class ends and we're given our next essay (ugh), JJ motions for me to stay. I'm starting to sense a pattern here, first with Cami and now with JJ, that I'm the problem child of all the participants. Easton takes his newfound freedom to tug indefinitely on JJ's trousers.

"Thank you for not having a problem with my son." He ruffles his hair to Easton's giggles. "He can be quite stubborn when he wants his way."

"That's okay. I don't mind at all. And I have my own little brother, so it's not dissimilar."

"Easton," JJ crouches, "this is Princess Gail. She's the reason we're staying in the palace. What do you say to that?"

Easton shrugs. "Can I wear pyjamas all day?"

I burst out laughing as JJ splutters. "That's not what I meant, kiddo."

JJ has Nanny Linda distract Easton as I stand in front of the teacher's desk and place my essay down. JJ looks down at it like it's a dog that refuses to sit on command.

"Yes, your essay. It was… probably the one I was most disappointed in."

That stings. My chin folds into my neck. "I did try…"

"I know. I get that. Your points, however, were too skewed one way. I asked for counterpoints, and you provided none."

"Do _I_ really have to give the rebels any chance at rebuttal?" I challenge.

He looks at me strangely. "Your Highness, I think you, most of all, need to be able to see the rebels' point of view of things." Before I protest he says, "I know they've committed horrible atrocities to yourself and your family over the years, but that anger has a source. What do you think filled that source to overflowing?"

Us. We did. Roy, Cami, Omma and Appa, my grandparents and their grandparents. Me, maybe inadvertently. It's all connected, and even now, it's all falling to me. I remember the Voice asking me to work with her, to build a sustainable relationship together despite our intertwined pasts, but it still hurts to look at the rebels and not think of all the death and terror that has borne from our conflict. The fear that snaked through my body as the rebels grounded my jet.

The fear of knowing that that was not the end.

"I'd like you to redo the essay." JJ hands it back to me. "Take as many weeks as you'd like. You can even sit in the sessions with Mr Obasanjo and Mr Reinhart. Just don't stall it until the end of the Selection. I'll know."

Maybe it will help. This is just an essay for a meaningless class, but it has bigger ramifications than a higher grade. I grip the pages with more force than necessary. "Okay."

"It's imperative you set a good example for the Selected," JJ reiterates. "They look up to you, Your Highness. If you're not trying in this class, why should they?"

As if I don't already have enough on my plate.

"Okay."

His eyes flicker to the door. "It looks like someone is waiting for you."

I follow his gaze. Through the window to the door I spot Sheng, rigid still as he peers inside. At my gaze, he hastens to look away. I frown as I tuck my essay in my bag and go outside to meet him.

With the door shut and no one else around, save the guards a few paces away, Sheng offers his arm to walk us to the Men's Parlour.

"Your Highness," he greets. Stiffly, but loudly enough for the guards to hear.

"Hello," I say quietly. "What do you want?"

"Can I be alone with you?"

I mean… yes. But also no.

He takes my silence as a chance to power on. As we take a few tentative steps away from the guards, his voice is a murmured request. "I would like to ask you on a date."

Oh. My immediate reaction is to decline, but that would look suspicious, wouldn't it? I scramble through my options.

"I-I can't, I'm afraid." _I'm afraid?_ Pffft. Now he'll _know_ I'm putting on a show. "I already have a date right now."

"Oh." He pauses meaningfully. "With who?"

"Elliot." It's the first name that comes to my head. I do owe him a date, after all. I really hope his schedule is empty, or else I'm going to look like a big meanie.

"Right. He's a good fellow."

I raise my eyebrow. "Is that supposed to imply something about the others?"

"I— no." His cheeks warm. "Well… truthfully, Gail, there are some of your Selected that… aren't so good."

"Really? Who?"

"Kingsley."

The name sharpens my spine. So Soren isn't alone. I can see it happening; Kingsley knows what he wants and how to get it, but how far is he willing to go? He was perfectly sweet with me on our dates, and I've never seen him be more than a little snappy over downright horrible.

"What makes you say that?"

"Can I be honest?"

"I thought we were already being honest."

"He's a jerk."

I take a moment to process this. "Is this something to do with Soren?"

"Soren's fine. He tolerates Kingsley's bullshit a lot less, and they clash because of it."

Unsure what to make of this, I squeeze his arm and say, "Thank you," and nothing else. Sheng keeps quiet as we reach the Men's Parlour, and I remove my arm from his when we go inside. It's already chaos as the Selected compare essays. Jeremiah consoles Ansel with gentle pats on the back as the blond glares intensely at the large _B+_ on the top of his paper. Kajika sits alone with two essays, one I suspect is Zelda's. Meanwhile Ben has his own crowd forming around him as he explains his points and arguments. I see Valerian making notes at his side. Kingsley is nowhere to be seen, and Soren is surrounded by another handful of Selected, snickering about his grade.

Sheng nudges me. "There's Elliot."

Elliot sits with Nathaniel and Nicholas as all three make quiet scratches on their papers together. It's not like JJ asked anyone to redo their essays, and yet every single Selected feels the need to go over what they did poorly. It fills me with hope. I drift over to Elliot, knowing Sheng is watching me.

"Elliot!" I announce cheerily. "Ready to go?"

He looks up with a confused frown. "Ready to go for—?"

"No time to waste! You can look after his essay, right, you two?"

I grin at Nathaniel and Nicholas who watch bewildered as I drag Elliot out of the Men's Parlour. I don't fail to notice that giant _D_ – on Elliot's essay, or the fact that Sheng was watching us as the door closed behind.

I take a deep breath. I think I got away with it.

Elliot's lips flatten into a line. "I'm sorry, I don't remember if we organised something or…"

"We didn't, but I thought after that horrible class, we could go ice skating together? Make good on that date?"

He lights up. "That sounds great!"

I'm definitely not dressed for it, and neither is Elliot in his suit, so we part ways momentarily to change and reconvene outside the ice rink. I'm in pink slacks and a sweater, whereas Elliot favours a deep blue tracksuit with an insignia on the back of his jacket. The University of Whites. I grin at it as he grins back.

"Always repping the team, huh?"

"Always."

On the rink, we set up a goal and warm-up by skating a few laps. No wonder Elliot's on his university team – he transforms into a fighter. He leaps and shoots along like a bullet through air, his skates churn ice into dust. Facing him head-on would be like facing a steamroller, and I'm so glad I'm not on the receiving end. He's like a male Felice.

"So! How about we make it interesting?" I tease, nudging my hockey stick towards the goal. Neither of us have helmet or pads on so we're not playing for any sort of glory here, but I do have a set of shin pads. "Let's have a penalty shoot-out."

He comes to stop besides me. There's a flicker of competitive smugness leering from his eyes. "I'm pretty good at those, you know."

"We'll see." I flash him a snide grin as I take position.

Shin pads help me now.

"Go!" I call.

Elliot really does look like a steamroller, about to flatten me to crisp. He charges forwards with the puck juggled in the toe of his hockey stick and shoots. I have to reach to stop it, let it bounce harmlessly off and fly away as the momentum thunders through me.

Whoa. I do _not_ envy Rose.

Elliot actually looks surprised. I'm not sure whether or not to feel insulted.

"Not bad," he harks. "I was going easy on you."

"See, that was your first mistake."

He grins. "Then I guess it will be my last."

He makes more shots, this time out-manoeuvring me at some points and falling right into my trap in others. The ones I miss fly so fast it's like they teleported. Elliot cheers after each successful shot (it's adorable) and boos at himself for each I block.

"You are really good at this. Most people wouldn't be able to block any." He takes a deep breath. "You play often?"

"You could say that."

Teehee. This boy has no idea he's talking to a member of the Angeles All-Stars.

The thought refuels me as we swap. Now it's my turn to take some shots. I've been put on the front lines, a wing to the centre, so in an actual game I will have my fair share of chances to score, and this is the perfect opportunity to practice. Elliot settles low in the pads squeezed tightly to his large shins and whacks the ice a few times with his stick.

"Let's go."

I may not be as bulky as Elliot, but my strength lies in my speed, and I zoom towards him and make a shot. It bounces off the goalpost – a miss – but if I hadn't miscalculated the shot Elliot wouldn't have been able to block it.

He huffs. "Wow. You sure you don't play for a professional team or something?"

I respond with a laugh. He can take that as he will.

We trade shots and blocks as we trade conversation.

"So why ice hockey?" I ask as we take a break on the benches, water bottles in hand. "What's the appeal for you?"

"I'm not sure. Why do you like blueberries? Why do I like pizza?" He laughs gingerly. "I guess I've always felt a connection to the ice."

"Me too." I frown. "Well, when I was younger, and you're not going to believe this… I used to play field hockey."

"What?" He laughs in mock horror. "That's awful!"

"I only got more into ice hockey when I got older. I mean, I still played it when Omma would take me to the Angeles ice rinks, but after Cami had this half-rink installed, that's when I really got into it."

He nods. "One time I saved my younger brother from drowning on a frozen lake?"

"Well, look at you, Superman."

He rubs the back of his neck. "Ah, nah. Not really. I forgot to tell him to avoid the thin areas, so he just skated everywhere and the ice broke beneath him. I guess I was obligated to dive in for the rescue."

"Don't sound too enthusiastic there."

"Hah. I mean, it wasn't exactly comfortable, but it was my little brother." He pauses to ponder. "I'm not sure why that inspired me to play hockey and not swim, but…" He shrugs.

"You'll be happy to know this is a manmade rink and not a lake. I won't be drowning and you won't need to rescue me anytime soon."

He grins. "Good to know."

We go for a few more rounds before I start to tire and dream about food, so I call off the date. We're both gross and sweaty but Elliot barely bats an eye as his focus lands entirely on me.

"I had fun today. Thank you."

"Me too." I beam. "Let's do this again sometime?"

"Let's."

This is what I needed after Dominik's date. Something nice. Something sweet. Something where I don't have to try very hard. I glance at Elliot as he unravels his skate laces and pause to think. _Do I like like him?_ The high in my chest doesn't seem to respond coyly to the thought, and it makes me think that I haven't sensed that spark, that chemistry between us. Yet. It could happen, so I file the knowledge away for next time, and sit next to him to undo my own skates.

My phone buzzes. As the thought of the All-Stars flood back, I have to do everything in my power not to frantically read whatever's come through. I say goodbye to Elliot and head down back to my room again before opening the message. From Rose.

 _Guess what? We've been invited to a party! Are we cool or are we cool?_

 _We have?_ I respond. I don't know anything about any party.

Rose forwards a message from a number I don't recognise.

 _Hi Rose! My name's Beverly Blumenthal, and I'm the new left wing of the All-Stars. It's so nice to meet you, future teammate! I'm having a yay-we-made-it ice breaker party at my house tomorrow night, and I'd love it if you came. I couldn't get the Vivas(?) girls' numbers and I think you have their contacts so if you could let them know they're welcome too, that'd be super! Let me know if you come. Feel free to bring +1s too ;)_

My cheeks positively glow. Wow. An invite? To a house party? I really am stepping it up in the world.

But immediately my stomach sinks into the pit of my gut. I can barely make it out the palace for a few hours. How could I get out for an entire night? I can't miss an opportunity to bond with my new teammates – they're who I'll be playing with for who knows how long. Maybe forever.

I shoot a quick text to Zelda.

 _Are we going to this house party?_

Zelda texts back immediately. _Hell yes._

 _How?_

But I already know how, and I know Zelda does too.

* * *

 **A/N:** Greetings, most esteemed readers. I dearly hope you enjoyed this chapter. Please do express your thoughts, feelings and opinions by composing a review, of which I would be most appreciative. If it may be of interest to you, please also consider the following questions: do you believe Max is suspicious of an ulterior motive? How did you react to the history lesson, to JJ's sobering words, to Soren's sabotage? What were your thoughts pertaining to Gail's courtship with Elliot? What do you suppose will occur at the imminent evening soirée, to be hosted by Gail's new comrade?

My kindest regards for reading.

~ GWA

NTT: Can't say I've ever heard _Sheng_ and _big balls_ in the same sentence.


	21. High Stakes

"So, your next excursion, as organised by yours handsomely, is the Decadence Gay Pride Parade in New Orleans."

I can't help but slouch at the words. New Orleans? For a parade? For once it's just Roy and me in his office, so I don't feel like I have to hold back for image or politeness. The sun rises, pattering rays across my clenched hands.

"What do you want me to do? Walk in the parade?"

"What else do you do at a parade? Let's see." He glances down at the paper on his desk. "Yes. The Lake Charter Elementary School has a float, and they've personally invited you to join them. Show solidarity and all that."

It's only been a few days since I got the news that I became an Angeles All-Star. That I can claim a title very few can. And I'm terrified that this parade will clash with my first official business as hockey player. Our first training sessions will begin after the party tonight, and I don't want to miss a single one.

"Why the long face?" Roy says as he flops down onto his chair. "It's easier than debates and author panels. Hell, this is the easiest task I've given you yet."

But it's so far away. What if I miss our first session and my now-manager Bellona Strike spits on my application as she rips it shreds and throws the pieces into a fire and then sets the fire on fire?

"What day?"

"It's Saturday." He raises an eyebrow. "Oh I'm sorry, am I cutting into your busy busy schedule?"

"I-I mean, I've already made plans. And… dates. I'll have to cancel all my plans with my Selected on that day and that won't be very nice."

"Pfft. Bring them all along." Roy sweeps his arm. "It's a parade. It'll be good for everyone to show up."

The last time I held an event where I brought all the Selected, I ended up nearly slapping one of them in a graveyard. It'll be different this time, I tell myself, because I've whittled down the total to the Selected I like and the Selected who like me. It's another test to see whether the boys can handle the spotlight, all eyes trained on them as they move through the streets of New Orleans.

I know I can't turn this down, even as I juggle the idea of doing just that. I'll look too suspicious. As suspicious as Max.

"Okay. I'll let the boys know."

He nods. "Since there's so many, I'm sending Durante to escort you all, along with a contingent of guards."

Roy's idea of a _contingent_ will be the whole dang barracks, but I wisely decide not to comment.

"Anything else I should know?" I lower my voice on instinct. "Rebels?"

He frowns. "They're not very active around that area, but that's why I'm sending Captain Durante. Just in case." He holds up a hand. "Another thing. I want you to bring Tay."

My head jerks back. "Why? It's so… public."

"Exactly. He needs that sort of exposure. Can't you see how… withdrawn he's becoming? At his age? We weren't ever that afraid of people that when we were nine."

Tay at a _parade_ though? Talk about throwing him into the deep end. "Okay, but convincing him is going to be hard."

"Promise a baking session. That'll win him right over."

It's probably not going to be as easy as I think.

I make my way to the Men's Parlour to announce the news, but I'm surprised at how few are here, and amongst those that are, have moved the sofas and chairs in a circle to sit. Parker is the only one standing, commanding attention as I interrupt mid-hand flourish.

They rapidly stand to bow. I hold up a hand. "That's not necessary." I frown. There's no table, so they can't be playing poker. "What are you doing?"

"Mafia," Parker says cheerily. "W-We've just started the game, actually. Erm… want to join? Maybe?"

"Mafia?"

Ben gasps. "You've never heard of mafia?"

Alone on the loveseat, Kingsley stands and offers the space next to him. "Sit next to me, Your Highness. I'll show you how to play."

Amongst the circle, Sheng gives me a hard stare. I still remember what he said, and what Soren implied, about Kingsley. It just doesn't match up with what I know. It can't be right.

"I'm supposed to be looking for Tay, but I can watch." Tentatively I take the seat next to Kingsley, ignoring how taut Sheng goes.

Kingsley slides closer to me. His cologne hints along my sense, a tease. "It's easy to understand. I have no doubt you will after I show you the rules."

"I'm the admin," Parker interrupts, earning a glower from Kingsley. "I'll tell Her Highness the rules."

He spins around in place, going from his neutral, bubbly face to one shocked, wide-eyed, almost disturbed.

"Welcome to the Village of Menpar, Esteemed Guest. 'Tis but a quaint town, if it weren't for the dark, _deadly_ secret that unshrouds in the midst of nightfall. For there are traitors in the village, traitors who would see the village perish!"

For someone who doesn't like scary stories, Parker is inhabiting his role. Whatever that is.

"These men here are of Menpar, but two amongst them are mafia, who will choose to kill an innocent in order to see the village fall into their hands. I am but the storyteller in this tale of woe, but you, Esteemed Guest, will live alongside these village folk. You, like Max over there" – he points dramatically to where Max broods on the window sill, watching the game with curious eyes – "will have eyes, but no tongue. So no spoilers, o-okay?"

"Sure."

"Each night, two members of the mafia rise from their beds to kill someone. Once they have chosen who to kill, they fall back to sleep, as the detective makes a move to investigate the fellow villagers. Are they mafia, or no? Once the detective makes his investigations, the medic awakens to spare someone from a fate most horrible."

Kingsley scoffs. "So, there are four prominent roles: mafia, who kills someone; detective, who tries to uncover the mafia; medic, who chooses someone to save; and then villagers, who try not to die."

I frown. "So what does it all mean?"

"Well," Parker blurts before Kingsley can continue, "as we go through day and night cycles, players will die, and it's up to the village to uncover the mafia, and up to the mafia to kill everyone so they outnumber the villagers. You all have your cards?"

The group choruses _yes._ The cards, I guess, dictate their role.

"The first night! Go to sleep…"

Everyone shuts or covers their eyes. I watch closely, hands folded on my lap.

"Mafia! Awaken, and choose your victim!"

To my immediate left, Avian lifts his head and grins. Opposite me, Silas raises his head, spots Avian wiggling his eyebrows and stifles a laugh. Both immediate point over my head to Kingsley, and Silas makes a lone nod before they both dip their heads.

"Thank you, mafia," Parker says. "Detective! Arise and choose someone to investigate!"

I almost yelp as Sheng looks up. He frowns, eyes flickering to the bowed heads. His eyes meet mine with an exasperated tint – _help me?_ It seems to say. I only shrug at him, so Sheng randomly chooses Jasper on the other end.

Parker gives him a thumbs down. Not mafia. Sheng breathes deeply before dipping his head.

"Medic! The victim has been chosen! Choose who to save, and pray you are correct!"

Ben heaves his shoulders and points to himself. I can't imagine saving yourself in real life would work like that, but who am I to question the logic of the game?

"Thank you. Sleep." Parker jumps, and I startle. "Now awaken! Kingsley, you have perished!"

"What? Again?" Kingsley yells to a rumble of smirks and giggles. He huffs and crosses his arms. "Why am I _always_ the first to die?"

Parker coughs, but says nothing.

"Now what?" I ask.

"The group has two minutes to discuss who's mafia, who's innocent, and who they want to lynch at the end of the night."

"W-What? Lynch?!"

But the group steamrolls on. Nathaniel raises a hand. "If Kingsley died first, it must have been either Avian or Jasper."

"I agree!" Kingsley toots. "I—"

"Shut up! You're dead, and dead men can't talk!" The look on Parker's face says he must very much enjoy telling Kingsley to shut up. Kingsley grinds his jaw.

"That's a bold accusation, Nathaniel," Avian says. He leans back and crosses a leg over his knee. "You said that last game when Kingsley died first, and guess who wasn't the mafia then?"

"That's a non-answer if I've ever heard one." Nathaniel is all chill as he rests his hands on his lap. He hasn't a striking face, and I haven't interacted with him all that much, but it's with a new intensity that he watches every move that Avian makes. "Most people would just deny it, yet you decide to question my integrity instead."

"If the detective has news, come forwards," Silas says. "We need to know who is guilty or innocent."

But Sheng stays mercifully silent, and the rest of the group looks around with increasing desperation.

"I find it interesting," Silas says instead, "how quiet Ben has been."

"What?" Ben scoffs. "You clown, I'm the medic. Ansel is being quiet!"

Jeremiah laughs. "Ansel's always quiet."

"Finally," Ansel mutters, "someone who's said something that doesn't make me want to gouge my ears from the overdone theatrics."

"That's harsh, even for you, Ansel," Silas offers, then tuts. "Suspicious, no?"

"I stand behind Avian or Jasper," Nathaniel says.

"Well, that's nice," Parker rips across the conversation, "but TIME'S UP! Choose who to kill!"

"I don't understand," I whisper to Kingsley as fingers point in all directions. "Why lynch?"

"Speeds up the process," Kingsley grumbles quietly. "Gives the villagers more motivation to uncover the mafia."

The group resounding lands on the death of Ben. Ben unwillingly accepts his death with nothing more than a muttered, "Ah shit, here we go again." Parker confirms his untimely demise, and the night cycle begins again. This time, Avian and Silas quickly choose Nathaniel to die. Sheng investigates Avian, and his eyes pop at Parker's thumbs up. Parker calls for the medic's turn, but of course Ben is dead, so the turn passes without a soul to save.

The next day begins. Now I see the appeal of the game; uncovering who is who in a high-stakes cat-and-mouse chase, except everybody seems to die and nobody seems to know who's doing it.

I'm surprised when I see Sheng raise his hand. "Avian is mafia."

Avian gasps. "That's some big balls you've got there, Sheng. Or should I say… _mafia!"_

Eyes pin on Sheng, including mine. Can't say I've ever heard _Sheng_ and _big balls_ in the same sentence.

"… What?"

"I'm the detective," Avian says, "and _you_ are the mafia."

Heads turn back and forth like we're watching a tennis match.

Sheng looks put off, but his gaze flickers to mine before addressing the group. "He's lying. Don't you find it funny that Nathaniel accuses Avian of being mafia and then gets killed? You silenced him in the night, and now you're trying to pose as me to throw off the scent."

"If that's true, then why didn't you come forward during the last day cycle?"

Sheng shifts in his seat. "I didn't want to tip the mafia off."

"Hmm." Jeremiah knits his hands together. "I'm just saying, but Sheng is too blunt to be a liar."

"Is he though?" Jasper says, frowning. "He's good at that. Hiding his true feelings."

Don't I know that.

Elliot glances between them all. "I don't have a clue…"

"Then let it be known that I'm a terrible liar," Avian says, to nods in the circle. "I can barely lie about what I ate for dinner last night, let alone if I'm killing off my fellow villagers."

"Time's up!" crows Parker. He looks delighted at the turn of events. "Menpar, choose your victim!"

"Sheng!" Avian says. "Sheng! Sheng!"

Sheng has the heart to look betrayed as the village turns against him. "Sheng, you have been thrown into a fire," Parker says. "So begins the third night."

Avian and Silas go for Jeremiah this time. Without the detective or the medic, Jeremiah is dead by morning. Parker reminds everyone that, should they lynch incorrectly, the mafia will win, since they will have the same number of villagers to mafia.

"Funny how all those people who suspect you are the ones to die, Avian," Silas says, eyeing his fellow mafia. "What did your great detective skills say last night?"

"Jasper. Mafia." Avian jerks a thumb.

Jasper makes a faux gasp. "I am hurt at this accusation."

"But you don't deny it?" Elliot says.

Jasper just grins. The turn might as well be over then, as everyone immediately decides to point to Jasper. He's lynched.

"Heh." Kingsley grins. "Finally, revenge."

"Huh?" I ask.

"There's also the jester role. If the jester is lynched, they choose someone to die with them."

"Night begins," Parker booms, "but what you fools don't realise is that Jasper's ability to rise from the dead… has doomed you all. Jasper, you are the jester and you have been lynched. Choose your victim."

Jasper evil-laughs as he announces, "Avian."

"Avian, you have perished," Parker says.

"I'm innocent!" he cries.

"And now also dead. It doesn't matter who is chosen by mafia to die, as it will equal the number of mafia and villagers, so…" Parker throws out his arms. "MAFIA WIN!"

"Technically, _I_ won," Jasper says, sinking into the sofa as if to bask in his own glory. "I got what I wanted first."

Chatter breaks out. Nathaniel throws himself up to stand, pointing fingers at Avian, as Silas cackles at Ben's complaints. Sheng just sighs, rubbing his temple like he can't believe he's here at all – and to be honest, the only way I see him willingly joining is if Avian somehow convinced him.

"Well, that sucked," Kingsley says, standing up. "Until I am not the first victim of the night's mafia, I shall not continue."

Parker boos Kingsley as he leaves the room, but it's with a delighted expression that he turns to the rest of us. "Want another game?"

"I should find Tay, but this was fun and you should all have fun."

After I rise to leave I head to the door, but Max catches me by the arm.

"Hey."

"Hello. You aren't playing?"

"It's too… intense, for me." He bounces on the balls of his feet and quietens his voice. "Lady Zelda accosted me earlier. You're going to a party?"

I drag him out of the Men's Parlour in case anyone overhears. "Yes, later today. Can you take us?"

"I… I want to go with you, actually."

"Oh? And why is that?" I narrow my eyes. "I can take care of myself."

"I know, but…" he shrugs, "I don't know. It's just you and Lady Zelda. What if you're caught? What if you get too drunk?"

"We're planning to limit our alcohol intake." But it's true, his sentiment at least. If I am caught, I'll need someone who can bail me out quick and easy. I can't drive and if Zelda wants to have fun, she won't be able to either, and as much as I pride myself in my jujitsu skills, I don't think I can take down that many hench hockey players with trunks for arms. Max is an easy solution. Intimidating is his whole persona, even if he doesn't seem to embody it to me. "But okay. If you want to come, you can."

His chest rises and falls beneath this shirt deeply, almost in relief. "All right."

"Were you worried?"

He nods his head back and forth. So yes. I think he's trying not to undermine my awesome power, which I appreciate.

"Then we'll meet later at yours for a movie marathon."

He frowns. "I hope the guards don't get suspicious."

"Oh, Naomi is definitely suspicious." I wave at him as I leave. "But they won't say a word against me."

* * *

The only thing I know about house parties are what I learnt from To All the Boys I Loved Before (aka, the best teen romance film, I love you Noah Centineo even though you're hundreds of years old and pretty dead by now): There are people. They bounce to an electro beat. They drink.

And some people make-out.

I'm not really sure what to expect from a party full of a women's hockey team. We're all older than seniors in high school now. This is more like a college party, and I haven't watched any college party movies.

Oh gosh. I am _so_ unprepared.

Max's car rolls slowly up to the address in Beverly Hills. The gates that surround the house are open wide into the small courtyard out front, packed with cars. Obviously anything pales to the palace, but I'm struck by the affluence on show: the verdant plants bursting with colour, the three-tiered water feature tucked into the corner with not a speckle of moss, and the large double doors ablaze with lights embedded into the drive. This could be a celebrity's house, and I would have no idea.

Max nudges the car between another and a row of hedge, cuts the engine and turns around. We've shoehorned him back into the blond surfer wig and touched up his face with make-up to hide his familiarity, but he actually looks really good in an all-black suit and gold cufflinks. Only the sunglasses throw us off, but there's nothing to be done about that. He frowns in my direction.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?"

"Just keep an eye out for any suspicious people," I say. Zelda and I are disguised in our usual wigs, but Zelda steals attention in a short, red bodycon dress, and me in a pretty tulle thing that flutters to my ankles. Layers of make-up glue to my face, and I adjust the glasses. "Tell us if there's anything wrong."

Zelda snorts. "We'll be fine. Not like half these people won't be drunk already."

"Remember our cover?" I ask.

Max sighs. "I'm the guy Susanetta is obliviously stringing along."

" _Aaaaand?"_ Zelda prods.

"And I have no courage to confess my true feelings for her."

"Good." Zelda pats his shoulder. "Now act the part."

The front porch is lit. Already the booming music thunders through the walls, through the ground and into my chest. My heart rate skyrockets as Zelda leads us to the door. There's a huge lion knocker there that glares at us.

"Remember our ground rules: a little alcohol is fine, but no funny business, and definitely no drugs or shit, okay? We gotta' have each other's backs."

"Why wouldn't I have your back?" I ask, puzzled that she thinks this isn't considered norm for us.

"This is different." She faces me. "This is, like, a party, not a hockey match. We'll have to talk to people and keep up our sibling act, you know?" We hashed out some details to our backstory, keeping it as true to our real lives as possible, but there's obviously some details we can't account for that'll crop up spontaneously. "Especially if one of us gets de-wigged. And especially if that person is you."

"Oh. Yeah."

You know, having no back-up plan for what to do if I'm accidentally exposed is… probably not smart. Max is here and he can get us out, but what's to stop the fallout? The consequences if I'm caught today?

" _Oh. Yeah._ Pffft." Zelda echoes. "Shit. How are you our country's princess again?"

I shove her hard. "I guess that means you have a grand escape plan."

"Yeah. If Intimidating Bodyguard over here doesn't work," she jams a thumb at Max, "then my grand escape plan is _threaten them with banishment until they concede to secrecy_. Otherwise, let's enjoy the hell out of ourselves."

The knock is loud enough that a young lady opens the door after the third echo. I recognise her instantly – Blumenthal, from the try-outs on that day. She has that _mom_ look about her. A kind smile that widens as she acknowledges us, a large but squat figure that pulls us into a squishy hug, and luscious, curly brown hair that tickles my cheeks. She almost reminds me of Cami, with that same aura of serenity.

She pulls back to admire us both. "Welcome, welcome, Vivases! You must be Linkle and Susanetta! And…" she raises a (very knowing) eyebrow at Max, "who's this?"

"George," he says.

"Boyfriend?"

"Plus one," I correct.

Blumenthal makes a face, but it's gone in seconds. "Well, I'm Beverly, but everyone calls me Bev. Come in, the party's just started!"

A wide staircase greets us first, plush with velvet carpet that leads to the second storey. The music is deafening now, blasting from the kitchen to our left. Our heels clack on marble floors into the open plan living space, the kitchen almost entirely ivory save the deep green countertops, and an L-shape green sofa faces a flat-screen TV and a faux fireplace before the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Beverly claps her hand, and everyone turns towards us. "The Vivas girls are here!"

My spine tingles with recognition – but not of the faces that blur together, but with the fact that everyone is so freakin' tall. Despite the electronic music blasting from Beverly's sound system, the noise seems to deafen, and it's immediately obvious why: we're the odd ones out. We're the outcasts.

Zelda can get away with it. She's not on the rink. But I am. Sweat collects in the small of my back. I croak a weak, "Oh, h-hello."

That's when I see Felice. So she made it to the team after all. After all that aggressive intimidation against me to bow out of the try-outs, she must think I stole the place of someone else – and by the way her brown eyes frost as they pin on me, that's totally, definitely, one hundred percent her line of thinking.

The small crowd parts and Rose emerges in a modest grey shirt dress and huge wedge sandals. Never have I felt such pure relief.

"You're finally here!" She gives me a hug. Over her shoulder I see Felice turn away. She won't make a fuss about me tonight. I hope. "Congratulations on making the team, Su!"

I tear my eyes from Felice. "Thank you. You too, Rose, and Bev!"

Bev chirrups. It's a deep sound. Throaty, even. "I'm so pleased. I remember you were a great wing, Su! You'll have to show me some moves."

Rose greets Zelda and Max and finally it seems like everyone has gone back to doing what they were doing. Now that I'm not centre stage I take note of the strong smell of perfume, and the breakfast bar bisecting the kitchen and living space, decorated with platters of food.

"The restroom's just down the hallway," Bev says. "Make sure to introduce yourself to everyone, okay? We're all going to be a team from now on!"

As Bev goes to talk to other people, Zelda, Max, Rose and I gravitate towards the buffet. Bev's gone above and beyond to accommodate with every finger food under the sun. Sandwiches. Chips. Vegetarian nuggets. Mac and cheese cups. Carrots and cucumber sticks with ranch dip. Cupcakes swirled with red and blue icing. Apples dipped in chocolate. Lots, and I mean _lots,_ of alcohol.

"Careful," Max says, his voice barely a mutter above the music. "Watch what you're eating."

I take a few sliders, oozing with cheese. Sliders should be fine, right? Each bite bursts a rich onion flavour across my tongue, and I am filled with instant dismay knowing that the only safe option on this table will make my breath wilt flowers.

Rose follows my lead, dipping her slider into the honey mustard mayo (ew). "I was talking to this really nice person earlier. Janet. I should introduce you to her. She's on the defence sub."

But if there's any Janet around who wants to talk with Rose, she seems to have hidden. Tightknit cliques have formed as fast as NASCAR racers down a loop track, and many have taken over couches or TVs or tables where cards are slapped down and cheers are cried. Bev makes conversation with the other defence players. Even Felice seems to be attracting attention as her and another girl make shameless googly eyes at one another. Funnily enough, Max is the only one present of the male persuasion.

Rose goes off to find Janet, but it's clear after five minutes that she's been swallowed into a poker game. Leaving Zelda, Max and I alone with no foot in the door. Zelda soon groans and chugs the rest of her first drink – a vodka and lemonade concoction. Emphasis on the vodka.

"Oh god. Why are we so awkward? We have to work with these girls from now on. We should just go up and talk to one."

To make her point, she marches up to the nearest: a tall, willowy blonde with a face so serene she makes Rose look like Felice. She, too, occupies the fringe of a group and startles when Zelda taps her shoulder.

"Hi, I'm Linkle Vivas."

Warily, the girl shakes Zelda's hand. "Willow Grace. You're… Bellona's apprentice?"

 _Bellona's apprentice_ makes Zelda stand straighter, her cheeks glow. "Yeah, that's me."

"I'm a goalie substitute."

"Oh! Like Rose! Well, she's the actual goalie."

Willow smiles. "That's nice."

It's a good thing Zelda had a drink because I don't think I can stand the ballooning silence that follows.

"Where are you from, then?" Zelda asks.

"Pasedena. You?"

"Crescenta." It's where the Bezuidenhout-Leeuwenhoeks live when they're not at the palace.

"That's not far."

"No, it's not."

"And you're sisters?" she asks, directing the question half at me.

"Yes," says Zelda. "Foster. Susanetta my family adopted when she and I were both twelve."

Willow nods. _Appreciate our fake backstory!_ I want to yell, but obviously don't. As they continue to make smalltalk that makes me want to melt into a puddle, I turn slightly and take Max's arm.

"I'm not drunk enough for this."

He sighs. "Me neither."

We return to the buffet to restock. I do two shots with him (him having just lemonade). After a little while the fuzzies start to get my head, and I know by the way the room jitters that I shouldn't drink anymore. Without Zelda as my safety beacon, my go-to at parties, my stomach hollows, so I hover around the breakfast bar with Max. He, at least, seems in no rush to mingle.

We find two seats at the breakfast bar. "Is this turning out how you thought it would?"

He shrugs. "It's a party. I was worried you would… let yourself go too much."

"I have my reputation to protect, even in disguise." I finish another slider, resolving to now eat something sweet to taper off my hunger. "I think you should be more worried about Zelda."

"At least her and Willow have finally broken the ice," Max mutters, pointing at the cluster that has come to watch Zelda's spectacular drunken antics. I'm not sure what Zelda thinks she's doing, but standing atop the armchair, she gesticulates, arms flung so gracelessly it's like her limbs ragdoll. Yet her and Willow work in perfect synch, like they've been friends for a lifetime; Zelda regales and Willow makes sly remarks that earn the most social brownie points in laughs.

I feel warm and fuzzy inside. It's not hard to suss that neither Rudy nor Durante let Zelda get out much, for whatever reasons they may be, so it's nice to see her cut loose and truly enjoy herself once in a while. All I want to do is let her. I don't have to join in so much.

"She only had one drink," Max murmurs.

"Zelda's so small that the drink goes instantly to her head." I watch Max as he watches the room. Vigilant. Like a real bodyguard. "If you hadn't escorted us here, what would you be doing tonight?"

"Probably driving around," comes his non-answer.

"Driving around. Is that all?"

He shrugs. "Meeting friends."

"What sort of friends? Friends who can make fake IDs?"

"Sure."

"… Are you going to give me anything else?"

"What else is there to know?"

"Well, maybe who these friends are? What do they do? How did you meet them? And all those motorbikes back at the garage…"

Another, more infuriating shrug. "They're just bikes."

"They're yours?"

"Yes."

"Do you drive them all—"

"All right, everyone!" Felice's voice booms around the room as she twists the knob on the music player. The room quiets. "Let's play Never Have I Ever!"

There's a cheer as girls start to shift furniture into a circle. _Oh gosh, a social thing I have to do._ Panicked, I look for Zelda, but she's already _very_ cosy with Willow to her left in one of the dark green loveseats.

"Never Have I Ever? What's that?" I say to Max.

He hands my cup to me. "You'll get it fast. You should play. I'm going to the restroom."

 _You should stop asking me too many questions,_ more like. Nonetheless, as Max slips out, and not wanting to miss the fun and team bonding, I elbow my way into the circle so I'm wedged between Rose and another girl. Rose, luckily, isn't drunk enough to forget me and immediately takes my arm.

"Oh, I love this game! Won't she love this game, Janet?" She looks into my cup with disappointment. "Oh, you should get a refill, Su!"

"Why?"

"You sure as hell need a refill, girl. Here, have this instead." The girl to my other side, who is apparently Janet, hands me something squishy wrapped in a baking sheet. "Madison made these for everyone."

I have no idea who Madison is, but in case she's watching, I unwrap the package to reveal a soft brownie beneath. Thankfully, I don't have to feign excitement. "Ooooh, I love brownies, thank you!"

"Don't eat it too fast," Janet chuckles.

"Right, let's start the game!" Felice declares. I can tell by the way she sways on the spot that she's had a _liiiiiittle_ too much to drink. With a wicked grin she says, "Never have I ever… played hockey!"

"You loser!" someone yells as they drink. As everyone drinks.

Rose nudges me. "Su, take a bite."

"But why?"

"You've never played Never Have I Ever?" She giggles. "When someone says something you _have_ done, you drink. Or eat in your case. You've definitely played hockey!"

"I… I guess." I take a bite. First the sweet chocolate taste fills me with such delight that I'm glad I came to the party just to taste it… until a strong, tangy note kicks it aside, tosses it to the kerb and spits on it. I have to resist the urge to cringe.

What the heck is in this thing?

"Never have I ever kissed a guy!" comes the next.

Some people guffaw into their cups, others drink. I take another quiet bite, not failing to notice how neither Zelda, Rose, nor even Felice glance at their drinks. In between I take sips of the remainder of my lemonade to mask the weird taste.

"Never have I ever kissed a girl!"

"Yeah, that's more like it!" someone shouts to everyone's amusement. Now people are drinking. Rose drinks. Felice drinks.

"Never have I ever," challenges the next, "had sex with a girl!"

Everyone starts drinking again. Suddenly I feel like this wasn't a game designed for Princess Gail Schreave. I knew I was sheltered, but as the statements continue and girls get drunker and drunker, I realise just what sort of lives these people have behind closed doors. Some of these moves I've never heard of. All of it is unrepeatable.

Eyes fall to me.

"Erm… never have I ever had sex with a guy?"

"Thank god!" someone yells to laughs. Hardly anyone drinks.

"You've barely done anything, Susanetta!" My ears recoil at Felice's voice, but her eyes are big and round and genuinely shocked. "You're so innocent!"

"You haven't even kissed anyone?" Beverly asks me.

"I-I've kissed guys!" I protest.

"Pecked, more like!" Zelda yells. Everyone laughs. My cheeks burn.

"So cute!" Rose says, but she holds my hand as she says it, meaning well.

"So tiny!"

"She's the little baby of our group!"

"Baby Su!"

Is it possible to die of embarrassment?

The game eventually breaks down as people get too drunk to form sentences. People start to dance – and by dance I mean stumble until they bowl each other over – and I deftly move out of the way back to Max.

"That was a strange game," I say.

"You normally drink," he says, and he frowns. "What were you eating?"

"A brownie." I scrunch the baking sheet into a ball and toss it into the trash. "It tasted really weird though. Not sure what sort of sugar Madison used to make it."

"Wait. It tasted weird? How weird?"

"Like, bitter? I don't know."

He makes a face that is staunchly stoic, yet somehow unable to hide the panic that rises into his eyes.

"Shit. How do you feel? Maybe we should go."

"Go? Why? I feel fine. What's wrong?"

"Haven't you learnt anything about accepting strange handouts?" At the shake of my head, he grimaces. "Gail, that thing was probably drugged to all hell."

… Drugged?

… Did I just eat a weed brownie?

I take a step back. Oh gosh. The taste. That's what it was. I just thought it was baking powder or badly-mixed flour. Heck, liquorice even crossed my mind. Not weed. And I ate the whole thing out of politeness.

"Oh no. Am I going to die?"

"No." He takes me aside into the hallway, where the music is quieter. "You're fine. Relax. Things might get… funny."

I have no idea what he means by _funny…_ until his face starts to melt.

"We… we should go."

"Good idea," he steadies me by the bannister. "I'll get Zelda—"

"No! Don't leave me!" I clutch his arm. "Please! I-I don't know what will happen."

"I need to get Zelda," he says gently, easing me onto the step. "If you wait here and don't move, you'll be fine."

"Please. I don't want to be alone. The rebels will get me again."

It takes me 0.3 seconds to process what I said.

 _Oh heck._

Max blinks away his surprise quicker than I imagined. I can't take the words back. They're out there now. He cannot unhear them. I cannot unsay them.

"The rebels won't get you here. Just don't move, okay? I'll be back in a moment. I'll find Zelda and then I'll come back to you."

I grip the bannister as he disappears. The lobby that was so crystal clear before but now tips, like I can see the very earth move along the axis of the sun. Colours merge into lines that merge into shapes. Sweat crawls down my forehead, ribbons off my body, dances like little water features by the umbrella stand. Then the umbrella stand starts dancing.

 _Oh hecky hecky heck._

Why is Max taking so long? Has he got lost? Janet was the one who gave me the brownie. What if Zelda ate one too?

"Zelinkle!" I shriek, the words merging. "Don't eat the brownie!" I run back into the living room and instantly regret it. Why has everyone turned into a cactus? Why is the floor lava? Max is somewhere in the congealing mess, but I don't see a flash of Zelda red anywhere. The bathroom, maybe? I rush forwards and fling the door open.

"Zelda! The brownies are—!"

The bathroom is very nice. White marble, veined with black and gold, that accents the modern faucet and the bathtub so large it could accommodate a whole household at once.

Somehow the appeal of said nice bathroom momentarily distracted me from the fact that Zelda is sitting on top of Willow on the toilet seat. And they're making out. Hard.

I'm so stunned I feel knocked out of my own body, but neither have even noticed. Their lips are so locked that Willow's lipstick coats Zelda's face, her cheeks. There are even marks on her neck.

"Oh my," is the first thing I say. "I will go now," is the second. I feel the need to say it aloud, to make it concrete, and I turn – but too fast, too sudden, and my head whacks the door. Pain explodes up my forehead and catches my balance unawares.

Everything goes slow as I fall. My glasses fall first, then my arms fly out to grab the door, but nothing is purchasable. Zelda seems to turn her head, and recognition bursts in her eyes, but my body pivots away.

I can just about see Max running in the hallway.

"Susanetta!" he yells.

Then I hit the ground, and everything goes black.

* * *

 **A/N:** Well... that happened, lol. Poor Gail! But I hope you enjoyed the chapter. I had to Google what a weed brownie tasted like so that's on my search history now.

The mafia game was lots of fun to write; what did you think of it? And Gail getting hammered? And Zelda getting wild? And Max being dodgy (though who's really surprised there)?

I should probably do the responsible adult thing and say don't do drugs, kids. And if you do, please do it with people you trust and in places where there are minimal potential hazards (like, cough, open bathroom doors...). Let me know what you thought of this chapter! ;)

~ GWA

NTT: "Please behave so we can have beignets."


	22. Rain on your Parade

Soft sunlight, a clear head, and birds twittering cheerily outside… is not what I wake up to.

The room is dark. I crawl out of slumber like I've been buried alive and my hair – my real hair – falls in greasy strands down my sweat-ridden dress. My eyes blink back crud, and I hastily wipe it away with sweaty palms. The bed enveloped around me is soft, but definitely not my own, with the woody scent that overwhelms my nostrils.

"Oh…" I groan, forcing myself to sit up. My stomach recoils in turn, and my arms shake, but I keep my eyes open to inhale the familiar scene. Moonlight filters between the cracks of the black curtains, and by the foot of my bed is a small sofa and an armchair. The TV is off.

Max's room.

Max lays lopsided on his armchair, snoring softly. My heart pounds as I remember – the party, the brownie, the falling unconscious because I'm a dumb-dumb who ate drugs by accident and thought it was a genius idea to walk around in my inebriated state. Everything aches. I touch the point on my head that pitched into the door and seethe at the bruise.

On the bedside table is a pitcher of water and a full glass, and I down it before pouring myself more. I don't know how long I was out, but my body has paid the price, drenching my senses in a fuzz that demands hydration and care. "Max?" I whisper, but he doesn't stir. I don't think I can stand without falling over, so I resort to tossing a pillow at him. "Max?"

His snoring snuffs as he flings out his arms. "Shit. What—?" Then he's up at my side. "Gail. How are you feeling?"

"Dizzy," I admit. He plumps the cushions and rests them behind my head. "What happened?"

"You fell unconscious. Hit your head pretty bad." From the mini-fridge under his desk he produces an ice pack and wraps it in yesterday's shirt. "Here. Put this against your head."

That's when I notice Max is very, very naked. Not birthday suit, but he's shirtless (and very well sculpted, ahem) and only wearing a pair of thin pants as bottoms. Not sure if it's the sweat or the fuzz, but my cheeks boil instantly, and I'm glad it's too dark to make out facial expressions as I snatch the ice pack and plant it on my head.

"How did we get here?" I gasp. "Zelda! Is she all right?"

"She's fine. Back in her bed. She was drunk when I managed to, er, peel her off her friend." He rubs the back of his neck. "I had to carry you to the car and drag you back through the tunnels. Zelda waited with me until she knew you were okay before she went back to her family's quarters."

 _Oh heck, oh gosh._ "Is she all right?"

"She was fine."

"Did… did she have the brownie, too?"

"No. And she was calling you names the whole way for being so, er, 'stupid'. Her words, not mine."

All that panic for nothing. I deserve the shame I feel.

"Does anyone suspect anything? The hockey girls? The guards?"

"The hockey team thought you were too stoned to do anything rational so they didn't mind when I took you and Zelda home. The guards…"

His hesitation is indication that though I may have narrowly escaped being exposed in Beverly's house, I'm in deep do-do in my own.

"I admitted to the guards that we'd been drinking, that's all. There's no way I couldn't, with you unconscious and Zelda out of her brains. They… might suspect the drugs."

Yesterday was such a trip I can't believe it was real. I comb through the memory only to recall an inkling of doubt, of dread, that surfaces like a drowning man starved for air.

 _Did I mention rebels? Was that real?_

"Max… did I… did I say anything? Anything strange?"

He sits at the foot of his bed, jaw working. "You were delirious, but… you said something about the rebels. You were scared of them. That they'd hurt you… again…"

The strong drug in the brownie must have swelled my apprehension tenfold. I'm not scared of the Voice. I can't be. But I sounded it. I felt it, yesterday on the foot of that step. Her bony fingers crawling up my spine. The monotonous timbre of her voice vibrating through my blood, humming at the thought of my pain. My misery. The misery of my family.

I sit up, the motion shooting an ache through me, and wave away his concerned hands. "Will you forget I said anything?"

Again he hesitates. Again, that's all I need to know.

"It's not a request," I say. "I want you— no, I need you to forget I said that, as a matter of security."

"They've hurt you?" he whispers. It's impossible to tell what he feels when his voice is so level.

"Not physically." I don't want to talk about the grounded plane. "But… they've done things that have hurt me emotionally. That's all."

"That's all?" he echoes with disbelief. "Your Highness, even that is unacceptable."

"I know. It is what it is. It's being dealt with."

He shuffles as if the answer is unsatisfying, but says, "All right," with concession.

I hope to put it behind me forever, but by Max's reaction, I suspect it'll be on his mind for a long time. Changing the subject, I say, "I had a lot of fun yesterday, despite the, erm, mishaps, and I have you to thank for it."

"Mishaps." He scoffs. "You were drunk, drugged, and scared, and I didn't notice until too late. I had to ward your bodyguard away from even seeing you. Said you were asleep. There's no way I won't be reported on. I don't think I'll make it past morning."

I want to shake my head, but I know it'll only hurt. "No. I'm the only one who can eliminate you. I'll make sure to keep you here."

"I was supposed to watch you."

"You did."

"Then how did I not notice that brownie sooner?"

"It's not your fault. I made a mistake, not you. I should've been more wary about strange handouts, especially if they're coming from people I don't know."

"But for you to feel so scared? That you got drugged in the first place? I… I should've been more careful."

"Oh, stop that." I swat his arm. "It's not your fault and I'm the princess, so I decree it true."

We lock eyes and I become acutely aware at how close he is. How close that very nice chest of his is. Warmth radiates from him. His smell is everywhere I turn, and even in darkness, I can see the softness in his gaze. The care. The guilt at letting this all happen.

After a moment, he looks away with a chuckle. "I suppose I can't dispute a royal decree."

"No, you can't." Trying to siphon off the burn of my cheeks, I clear my throat. "What now?"

"Your guards are waiting outside."

It takes a few minutes to get up steadily and then another few to make myself presentable. The tulle dress is ruined, but my duffle bag is still here, so in Max's bathroom I change and comb my hair and strip my face of make-up, revealing the true pallor beneath. Luckily, no red webs in my eyes to betray any strange happenings with chocolate confectionary, but I do look like a corpse recently reanimated.

I open the door. The hallway sconces burn my vision, but Naomi quickly engulfs my vision.

"Finally," she says. There's a note of fatigue in her voice. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine. I was sleeping."

"From drink," she says, glaring at Max behind me, who has since put on a robe. "You look like death warmed up."

"We should get a doctor." It takes me a moment to recognise there are a handful of guards standing outside with Naomi, plus Max's bodyguard. All these people, sent after concern for me?

"No, I'm fine. I had too much to drink, and I passed out. That's all. I just want to sleep."

Naomi makes a face. "We really should—"

"I said I'm fine," I snap. Regret fills my veins, but I have to show authority if I want this to go my way. "You won't tell a soul about tonight, any of you. You will not inform Captain Durante, and you will definitely not inform Roy. Make some excuse why you're all here that doesn't throw myself, Zelda or Max under the bus. Now escort me to my room. Please."

The other guards disperse as Naomi gestures for me to walk, her face hardened with the scolding. Guilt nearly trips me up, but I glance over my shoulder at Max to remember why I'm pulling rank so hard.

His silent thanks comes as a smile. That stupid, cute smile, attached to that stupid, attractive body. Then he shuts the door and I leave for my room, a little breathless.

* * *

By early afternoon, I've been thrust into an aeroplane due to land in New Orleans within the next few hours. The Gay Pride Decadence Parade is tomorrow, but Roy has organised some press for the evening with the rest of the Selected. As promised, the guards didn't say a word, and so he makes no mention of my late night excursions.

All I want to do is lie down, shut my eyes, pretend I'm in my double bed at home and not relegated to half a recliner in the middle of the monkey exhibit that is the Selected on a large aeroplane. The amount of noise these boys make, it's like a fraternity during freshmen week.

But I can't blame them. Especially the ones who haven't been on royal jets before. The bar is busy fulfilling a plethora of cocktail orders as the Selected enjoy their time away from the palace.

Our jet today is the largest we've been on since, spanning the size of at least two Men's Parlours. At the front, the bar clings to the wall, and Silas, Ben, Avian, Levi, Grayson and Jasper take shots with loud cries of triumph or wails of despair as they smack cards down, to the exasperation of the bartender. A video game system is plugged into the flat screen, and Parker, Elliot, Jeremiah, and Maurice versus each other on some fighting game (they all look the same. Don't hate me). Ansel is playing 3D chess against himself, occasionally glancing up to watch who gets KO'd, and Nathaniel, Nicholas and Kajika are chatting quietly by the window. On my end of the plane are the various seats, and Valerian and Soren are catching some shut-eye (Valerian has a silk eye-mask on, the epitome of _do not disturb)._ I can't see Yamato or Kingsley, but there are nap rooms around the back, so I can only assume they're getting more private sleepy time.

Max is there amongst the group, too. He occasionally glances over to me, and I have to shoo away the feeling that tingles up my spine.

Grayson breaks off from the bar group to waddle over to me. I want to sleep, but by the openly curious look on his (very drunk) face, I can't turn him down.

"Hey, Your Highness, can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

He sits opposite me. "Is it true?"

"Is what true?"

"Is it true," he says, loud enough for the whole aircraft to hear, "that you slept with Max Wellington yesterday?"

My soul punches free from my body. _What. The. Heck?!_

It's like the entire room goes silent. The video game quietens. The drinks at the bar settle. Soren's snoring mutes to the odd cough.

"S-Slept with—" I sputter, reining in a shrill. "W-Where did you hear that?"

"Yesterday. I heard you coming out of Max's room late. Couldn't help but open the door and peek. You looked so bad! I thought he must've been crap."

I glance over his shoulder to Max. His face is bright red – redder than the ruby red flats I'm wearing at the parade tomorrow (they are very red). I see alarmed gazes fix on him, too. What they must feel at this accusation.

"I-I slept _in his bed,_ yes, b-but we didn't do anything!"

"You were drinking, though?" He frowns. "You got drunk and shared a bed with him?"

"No! I mean, I had drinks, yes, but he took the armchair as I slept in the bed. He was very gentlemanly about it." _His delightful chest. His very annoyingly handsome smile._ My cheeks burn so much I want to rip the skin off to make it stop. "There's no need to gossip about things."

"I'm sorry. It's the Selection. I didn't know what to think." He sounds genuine as he speaks, and I think that must be the alcohol. He really _did_ wonder if anything happened. "I wouldn't have minded either way, Your Highness. You can do whatever you want!"

"Well I mind this conversation, and it is very inappropriate."

Rearing back like a slapped puppy, Grayson mumbles, "Sorry. I just didn't know we were allowed to invite you into our rooms like that."

"Like what?" I snap.

"You know, to drink. For you to stay the night. I didn't think you were that sort of person."

My voice levels. "And what sort of person am I supposed to be, Grayson?"

He rears back again. "No! I don't mean it like that. I don't mind, honestly. I just want to know how far the boundaries are."

"My boundaries are my own. I don't see why it's any of your business." If there was anyone who wasn't watching, they are now, and it spurs this sick feeling in my stomach. "You can consider yourself eliminated when we return to the palace."

"What?" he says after a gasp, and I think he'll put up a fight, but he sobers instantly. "I-I am truly sorry. I didn't mean any offence—"

"Your intentions don't match your actions. Leave me."

Grayson retreats for one of the spare nap pods, away from me and everyone else, and I relax my posture.

Utter silence. If the plane weren't high in the air, the engines churning outside, it would be so quiet I could hear the beat of my heart, and I wish my seat would rise up and engulf me. That way I wouldn't have to see the faces of the other Selected in my peripheral vision.

And poor Max. If there was anyone who didn't deserve it, it was him, after all he'd done to keep me safe from myself yesterday. Now there will, no doubt, be a barrage of questions his way. I wish Zelda were here to take the heat off, but she's stuck at the palace, probably on enforced homework time for being out so late.

She'd adopt a fierce glare and dare anyone to challenge her. So I do the same, staring straight into the eyes of anyone who looks straight back. Heads turn instantly, the buzz alight again, and it's almost like nothing happened. Almost. I can detect the undercurrent of apprehension – that not even close quarters such as these will prevent an elimination.

"Gail?" asks a small voice.

Tay jumps me out of my thoughts. Regan smiles from behind, and I know Tay must have woken from his nap. Good timing.

"Tay, hello." I take his hand and lead him to the seat opposite me. Where Grayson sat moments before. "Are you excited for the parade?"

"No."

At this point, me neither.

"Aw, don't say that, Tay," Regan says. "It will be fun! And you'll get to explore New Orleans. They have the best seafood."

"And beignets!" I say.

"What's a beignet?" Tay asks.

"Like a doughnut. It's fried dough with sugar on top. Tasty."

Tay shuffles. "That does sound good…"

"If you're a good boy during the parade, we can get beignets from the best café in New Orleans, and when we get home we can make some. How does that sound?"

He brightens. "Okay."

I might've made this plane journey horribly awkward, but at least I got Tay to smile. That makes it worth it.

* * *

The spectacular sunshine and clear skies on the day of the Gay Pride Decadence Parade makes me think that, if there is a god, he's a gay ally. Warmth stretches along the busy streets and glows against my skin as I wave, seated comfortably atop the float of the Lake Charter Elementary School.

It's literally a rainbow connecting two clouds on wheels. But it works. I hesitate to believe ten-year-olds can build something as magnificent as this in two months, even with the haphazard streaks that colour each of the rainbow's rays, but it has enough room for me on one cloud and Tay on the other, and the boys and the elementary school kids following along ahead. Crowds have gathered until they brim into the streets, until they're jostling one another on the townhouse balconies as we turn into the French Quarter.

"When does the parade end?" Tay calls to me. "My cheeks are sore."

"Not for a few streets yet, Tay," I say back, though I'm barely audible over the cheers. "You're doing great! Keep it up!"

Tay doesn't bother smiling anymore, but he does wave, so I guess that's compromise.

I take in the salty sea air. The parade snakes through the city; we're one of the last floats, myself and Tay being the main attraction of course, so the ground is already littered with colourful beads and lost pride flags. A handful of our Selected have their own. Avian, Maurice and Parker are a close-knit trio, delighting the crowd with three giant pink, lavender, and blue flags that sail from behind him like cloaks, and people crowd to the gates to have them sign their own bisexual flags. Others are more subtle with their pride – Jeremiah looks no different except for the cute bi cufflinks on his suit, and Kajika wears the pins for pansexual and asexual on his lapel. The rest merely wave or hold the rainbow flag, though I suspect, if they're in this competition with me, that they're not actually gay and just want to be good allies.

I hear a noise below. Ansel waits for the float and sits on the edge of the cloud.

"Feet hurt?"

"Unfortunately." His hand only flickers in a wave, and I frown.

"Not enjoying yourself?"

He takes a moment to choose his words. "I support pride, of course, but this is all far too theatrical for me."

I roll my eyes. Of course it is. For as long as I've known Ansel, parades – heck, _social interaction_ – don't seem to be his thing. Smart as he is, his people skills are about as level as a fish.

"You know, if you become prince, you'll have to do things like this. Theatrics and all. You're not even smiling."

"I am smiling," he says, with the most deadpan face ever.

"Oh come ooooon," I tease. "Grin!"

He raises his upper lip. It's like a vampire baring his fangs.

"Oh. Maybe don't."

"Hmph." The sound is self-satisfied, but he does a better quirk of the corner of his lips, which will suffice as joy. At least the crowd don't seem to mind, too pumped to see the Selected in person. "My grandmother would have liked this parade."

"Oh? Why is that?"

"She was friends with a lot of drag queens." He makes another half-hearted wave at a girl and she faints at the barrier. Ansel makes no notion that he noticed. "The parade is being televised, so I told her to watch, but it is rather late in the German Federation."

"Wow. She's a long way away."

"Yes. She is."

Is that a hint of sadness I detect, in his voice? With his face so stoic it's hard to tell if it was real or a trick of my overly active imagination.

Jeremiah lags back and motions for Ansel to scoot over. Ansel snorts but doesn't stop him. Unlike his blond companion, Jeremiah's grinning ear to ear (not creepily), cheeks rosy from adoration, and waves with all the infectious enthusiasm as a puppy meeting its master again. It's strange, the pair of them – they met during the plane journey to the debate, and I've seen them playing chess together in the Men's Parlour. Now it's like they're really good friends, and it warms my heart to think the Selection brings people together. People who would've never met otherwise.

"Did I hear we were being promised beignets after this?"

"Beignets?" Tay says. Super-hearing only when baked goods are involved. "When?"

"After the parade," I say, then add teasingly, "And I made a promise to Tay, not to any of you."

Jeremiah has the good sense to look hurt. "But Your Highness… beignets."

Ansel scoffs. "Do you know how bad beignets are for you? They're deep fried—"

"Pffft. Yeah. That's the point. C'mon. Bet they'll taste good."

"Does diabetes taste good?"

"Ansel, stop being such a worrier." Jeremiah nudges him. "Just one won't do you any harm."

"I suppose I could have _just_ one," Ansel grumbles.

"That's the spirit."

"What's this I hear about beignets?" Kingsley struts up to us. He's not holding any decoration, but does smile and wave like a pro. "I love beignets."

"Oh, Gail, can't all the Selected get beignets too?" Tay begs. "Please? I don't want it if no one else is getting them…"

"You surely can't turn down His Royal Highness, Princess," Kingsley says.

"Only if you behave."

Tay attempts to whisper to them, "Please behave so we can have beignets."

I'm laughing so much my nostrils flare. Doubling down to control my giggles, I look into the crowd. That's when I see it. A flash of black. A figure with a dark scarf around their head, eyes pinned on me. My laughter drowns. My smile vanishes.

That's a rebel.

No. Surely not here, not now. The rebels can't want to interfere with this parade. A gay pride parade! Why? My haunches rise and I dare to peek back at where the rebel was standing, but they've disappeared, and though I desperately scan the crowd with my eyes, I can't spot them. It's like trying to find Waldo.

Is this the Voice trying to contact me again, like she said she would?

I clench the armrests of the makeshift throne. What makes her so certain that this time, I'll agree to her terms? Agree to become another voice for her rebellion? My stomach twists and I have to force myself to smile and wave again, but the rebels must know I know. They must see how rattled I am.

"Your Highness?" Jeremiah asks, looking back at me, those lovely eyes of his sparkling. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine."

A palpable fear strikes me as I glance at Tay. He's innocent. Nothing to do with the rebels. They wouldn't cause trouble with him around, would they? Not even they are so needlessly cruel? The thought crawls so badly beneath my skin that I feel only a crash of relief when we turn the last corner into the wide thoroughfare that ends the parade.

A scream cuts through the air.

I turn sharply. Smoke erupts from a nearby townhouse, snaking across the floors, dropping to the ground. No fire – this smoke doesn't sting, doesn't smell, but it is thick enough to engulf anyone who nears it. Crowds scream and disperse, and a crush of bodies threatens to drop the barrier.

"Smoke bombs!"

That voice came from ahead, from the souvenir shop on the parade route. Smoke whips out from the door and onto the street. Chaos ensues as more smoke bombs burst along the parade route – all of it in my vision on top of the float.

Durante materialises out of nowhere. "Protocol Shield! Now!"

From behind, Naomi lunges at me in a bear hug. Shielding me from shots. In my peripheral vision I see Tay's bodyguard do the same, hauling us both off the float and towards a crack in the barrier. Guards surround me so instantly I barely have time to breathe.

"T-The Selected!" I cry, looking back. Under Naomi's arm and the thick layer of guards do I see the remainder of the contingent crowding around the Selected boys to follow. "Tay? Tay!"

I hear a muffle that sounds like a sob, but with Naomi pushing me along, saying "Keep moving Your Highness! He's right behind!" I force myself to keep going until we take shelter in a restaurant not so far. An open space, with only high stone columns separating the indoor tables from the outside world, but the shutters are rolled down immediately, plunging us into darkness.

Lights come on. I can't stop my hands from shaking. From my whole body from shaking, as I warily take in the scene. The Selected boys, all nineteen of them, safe. The elementary schools kids and their teachers, some jostled by the crowds but all seem present. The guards that flip tables over to act as barriers should there be any attack. None comes, and though Durante and the rest train their weapons at all exits, somehow they seem to know the smoke bombs were the only trick the rebels will be pulling today.

Only a trick. Or a message. For me.

 _We're watching._

"Tay?" I call. His bodyguard signals to me as I rush to him, curled up behind a table, tears stained on his face. I take hold of him and hug fiercely, scared to let go as he wraps his little arms arounds me.

"Gail…" he mumbles between hiccups. "Gail, I'm scared. I want to go home."

"It's okay," I soothe, even though my own face must betray the truth. "It's okay. You're all right."

"Why was there so much smoke?"

I release him a little to wipe the tears off his face with my thumb. "To be honest with you, scamp, I don't know. But all the guards got you to a safe place. And you have me. Okay?"

He sniffles. "I want Omma."

As I glance around at the weary, harried faces of Durante, the guards, the elementary school kids who cry softly into each other's arms, and the Selected, who will likely never forget this night for as long as they live, I can only lower my eyes.

"Yeah, scamp. Me too."

* * *

 **A/N:** I feel people are coming for me now that I've emotionally scarred Tay… [barricades self] Nonetheless, hope you enjoyed the chapter!

Big thanks to **La Rosa** for Grayson! He got a lil' too drunk and Gail was clearly not having it today... lol.

Thanks for reading, reviewing, and breathing good friends!

~ GWA

NTT: "It sounds rather cumbersome, and that's without dealing with the bodies."


	23. Tough

Roy paces so much that I think he'll draw circles into his nice plush rug.

"This is outrageous. A gay pride parade. Why would they choose to strike during a gay pride parade?"

I can only shrug and twiddle my thumbs. The palace was already up-to-date with the happenings at the Decadence Gay Pride Parade – besides being able to watch it live before the feed was cut, they had contact with Durante the whole time – and I've never felt a hug so fierce when I landed on the tarmac of LA's airport. Roy, Cami and even Omma came out to see us.

Tay's still with Omma, clinging to her side as they bake therapeutic beignets together. Now my little brother will be scarred for a lifetime, all thanks to rebel antics. And for what? My attention? Or was it a nuisance act merely meant to disrupt a beautiful celebration of life and equality?

"Hey. Careful there." He takes my hand and unclenches my fists. "You were so tense your nails were biting into your skin."

"I'm just— mad." It comes with a rush of feeling, almost exaltation, at admitting it. "Not mad that it happened. Mad that Tay will probably never want to go outside again."

Roy sighs and sits at the lip of his desk. "I know. I have faith in that kiddo. He's stronger than he realises."

I hope he's right. I hope this doesn't affect Tay adversely forever. What they did to him is unforgiveable.

"What do we do now?" I ask.

"Press has been clamouring for answers since the attack, and I don't know what to give them, Gail. I just… don't know."

My stomach drops. Roy's supposed to know everything. He's the king.

Instead he rubs his temple. That's when I notice his eyes, bloodshot from lack of sleep. "I'm going to opt for a measured response right now. I'll address it briefly on the Report, mentioning how it has disturbed you, and that our security is handling it. Adding a heartfelt plea for it to stop."

That we have to consider making things more 'heartfelt' for the people to digest is a crime in and of itself. "I heard what those snobby rich people said to you the other day. The rebels have been non-stop interfering with them, too. Anti-social behaviour and supply raids and protests. When will it end?"

"When it has your attention. Your full attention."

"And it does. And I want to stop it."

Roy's eyebrows furrow. "If you're suggesting accepting the Voice's offer to join the cause, you can forget it."

"That's— that's not what I was suggesting." Though I guess, in a way, it is, even if the idea sets my teeth on edge. "Maybe we should hear them out."

"We _have_ heard them out," Roy says. "That's what my friend Lilly is for. She worked for the rebels previously. I can't get a better connection to them if I tried."

"If they're asking for me, then they must think differently."

Roy lets out a blustering cry. "No. We give them too much power, and I might as well hand them the crown. They go through the proper channels or they don't go through at all. These rebels must be kept at bay, and I will not allow you to come into harm from them."

But it's with a small voice that I speak.

"It's already too late for that."

* * *

I almost think I imagine Sheng standing stoically by the window until I approach him quietly from behind.

"Sheng?"

He turns slightly, and his sombre, faraway gaze smothers. "I… had to find you. I heard you were here." His fingers twitch, restless, like they want to reach for me. "Yesterday…"

"I don't want to talk about yesterday." It's too fresh in my mind; if I could barely stand it with Roy, how could I utter a word about it to Sheng?

He nods once. "Would you walk with me?"

I flutter a hand to Naomi and Sheng's bodyguard to give us space. He weaves his arm through mine, and again we're wandering the halls, with no direction other than the compass of our hearts.

"I was terrified for you." Sheng is quiet normally, but this was barely an utterance, barely more than an exhale of breath. This time he doesn't resist and rests a hand on my arm. "I was terrified you were hurt."

"I was fine. I was more worried about Tay."

"Is the prince okay?"

"He's recovering."

"That's not the same."

At a window we stop, inhale the scene before us. The courtyard leads to a drive which leads to the gates, and the acres of land beyond.

"He'll be okay," I choose instead.

"Yesterday… it made me realise life is short." He turns to me. "I… I know it's against protocol, but… my grandmother…"

His grandmother; I have almost completely forgotten about her. Still sick in hospital. It forces me to face him. "What about her?"

"I'd like to request that I be allowed to leave the palace to visit her. Frequently."

"Of course." I don't hesitate. "I will get permission for you."

"Thank you." It's an earnest smile that soon waters to a nervous one. "And… and I would still like to take you on a date, Gail. I would still like to be given the chance to prove to you I am worthy."

"To prove to yourself, more like."

He stiffens, but relents. "Yes. To prove to myself, and to you."

I chew on the inside of my lip. "Soon," I end up saying. It's non-committal enough to get away with. "I… I don't want to plan anything right now. It doesn't seem right."

He nods again, silence enveloping him.

Then he says, "You're strong, Gail. Stronger than you believe."

And I wish I could believe him.

* * *

If the mood in the Men's Parlour were a colour, it would be a muted grey. Like all the life is drained, leaving only a hollow carcass behind. I can taste it in the very air; the apprehension, the worry. The late morning sunlight attempts to colour it brightly, but illuminates the shadows instead.

For the first time since the start of the Selection, the boys have experienced a rebel attack. We're not officially calling it that – _rebels_ or an _attack,_ but they know it nonetheless. I know they know it, as they rise from their seats slowly as Rudy motions for silence at my side.

"Hey, everyone. I wish I could have sheltered you from this, but I guess I'm not in a position to do so any longer." I shrug out of instinct, but the motion feels almost wrong. That I can dismiss something so significant. "In our free world, there are people who will disagree with me, my family, our politics, and what we stand for, and yesterday during the parade, you saw first-hand how they can express their dissatisfaction."

Soren raises a hand. "Is Prince Tay all right?"

I'm endeared that he cared enough to ask. "He'll be okay. A little shaken, but back to baking. I think he and my mother are making some beignets for everyone."

Rudy waits for the chuckles to settle. "I imagine that after yesterday you are all exhausted. You are all shocked. And you are all, perhaps, reconsidering the position we have put you in. So I thought that today, instead of morning classes, we could have a group activity to cheer you up. A little fun in light of recent events, if you will."

As the boys swap confused faces, Rudy motions for the attendant to open the doors, and Durante, Naomi, and three more guards come inside and start to tip over furniture, remove expensive glassware and cover the piano in a thick dust cover. It transforms the Men's Parlour into a fortress of hidden alcoves and small hiding spots, cushions scattered across the ground and curtains thrown to cut the light.

Durante hands Rudy a large weapon. A dart gun.

"We," declares Rudy, "are going to have a NERF gun fight."

"What?" Kingsley says above the chatter that bursts out. "But why?"

"I think it's necessary team-building after yesterday," says Durante. There's a haunting, almost arrogant smile on his face as he splits the remaining nineteen into three groups – to my amusement, both Sheng and Soren have been put with Kingsley.

Sheng looks so uncomfortable, with his arms crossed and his eyes restlessly bouncing between me, Kingsley, and the rest of the boys in his group. It's kind of hilarious.

"When do we get our guns?" asks Jeremiah.

"You don't. The guards and I will be your opponents, and Rudy will be referee." Durante shuffles myself and Sheng's group into the corner. "Your job is to get the princess to the other side of the room. If you are shot, you die. And if Her Highness is shot," he pauses meaningfully, brows falling deep until they cut into his eyes, "you lose."

It dawns suddenly on everyone that this is no mere game. Sheng meets my eye again, but I keep my gaze lowered. I agreed to this. They must see – must all see what being here means.

Kingsley blusters. "But— but that's impossible! There's five of you with guns, but I have nothing to protect myself or the princess!"

Durante looks smug as he speaks. "Then you'd better improvise, Mr Obasanjo."

"We're supposed to work _together,_ Kingsley," Soren says with a straight face, though the corner of his lip twitches desperately. "We should plan."

"As usual, offering an idea but no real solution," Kingsley scoffs. "I _know_ we should plan."

"We should take out the guards," suggests Sheng. "They're the biggest threat to Her Highness."

"But their guns," says Maurice, eyeing Naomi. "They'll get us before we can even think about touching them."

"You have ten seconds," Durante calls.

"Ten seconds!" Kingsley protests – if he had longer hair he'd be pulling it out by now. "How are we supposed to plan _anything_ in ten seconds?"

"In the real world, you'll be lucky to have that." Durante raises his pistol. "Now go."

Sheng throws me down before the darts patter against the wall. My head hits the ground and in a moment of delirious pain, I pity whoever will have to tidy after we're done.

"Oh no, I—" Sheng looks mortified. "Gail, I-I'm so sorry—"

He flinches as a dart hits him in the forehead. "Sheng Mah!" Rudy calls. "You are dead!"

The guilty look on his face overwhelms me with pity. "I—"

"Dead man do not talk!"

"Just like in mafia!" Parker calls from the side.

"It's okay," I tell Sheng as he reluctantly lies on the ground. "I'm okay."

Kingsley hesitates a moment to glare at Sheng – it seems to be more than a grudge for failing. He tugs me towards the next piece of furniture. "Come on."

We speed behind the fallen sofa, narrowly dodging darts that descend and staccato at my legs. Bundled together with our knees clutched to our chests, Kingsley, Soren, Maurice, Ansel and Avian all attempt to talk over each other.

"We should wait until they reload," Maurice says.

"They're not gonna' all reload at once," says Avian, daring a glance over the sofa edge. He squeals and drops as another dart comes his way. "Case and point."

"We need to map out a route." Ansel peers around Avian as he attempts to see the next best piece of furniture to hide us all. By his crumpled face, there's nothing. "We might have to split."

"That's a terrible idea!" Kingsley snaps. "We can't—"

Then Naomi steps around and shoots every single one of them, and then me.

"Sloppy," chides Rudy. "You all lose."

"She came around the corner!" Kingsley yells.

"Yes. We're not stationary, you know." Durante twirls his gun as he goes to collect the strewn darts. "Next team, prepare."

As Kingsley trounces back to the side he passes another glare to Sheng, who only looks bewildered in turn. I can't think why; he's the reason they didn't lose immediately.

Parker, Ben, Elliot, Levi, Valerian and Silas form a protective barrier around me as we hop from one piece of furniture to the next. Even skirting around the piano, which though slower, gets us closer to the other side. They'd clearly spent their time planning instead of watching Kingsley's team flop around.

"All right, like we discussed." Silas nods his head to Parker. "Do it."

"Do what?" I say.

Parker takes a deep breath and then runs out. " _AAAAAAAAAAAHHH!"_ The guards train their weapons to him just as the rest of the boys shove me out, tagging the overturned table and then slamming into the wall.

"Woo! Go team!" Parker cheers.

"Dead men," Rudy reminds, and then calls for silence. "Very good. Now get back to the other side."

"What?" Silas barks. "But that wasn't—"

The guards take aim. We all duck. Valerian ropes my arm with his protectively as he army-crawls back to the coffee table. He checks me over. "Are you all right?"

"Just confused. Your grand plan was to sacrifice Parker?"

Ben winces. "It was the only way we could think of to distract Big Brother."

"Don't worry, Gail," Levi says with a grin. "We'll get you out."

"I—"

" _Move!"_ Silas yells as Naomi attempts a redo of her earlier trick. Darts snick by my feet as Elliot chucks a cushion at Naomi to distract her. It buys valuable time, but enough to save Silas, who gets pelted in the shoulder.

"Damn it!" he yells, lying down. "Come on! It's the arm! I'll be fine!"

"It counts as dead," Rudy says.

Behind the piano, Elliot lets out a panicked breath. "All right, no team leader. Now what?"

"We're so close we might as well run for it," Ben says.

Levi laughs nervously. "Will we make it?"

"Let us hope so." Valerian turns to me. "Ready, Princess?"

"GRENADE!"

A small, soft ball, like a dog's chew toy, lands by our feet. We stare at it for a few, precious moments – the boys are so surprised by it they don't move.

"And you all lose," Rudy calls. "Reset."

Levi startles. "Wait. But— what?"

"That's bullshit! That's so cheap!" Silas climbs up from his dead position. "You can't—" He promptly shuts his mouth. There's a cloudy realisation that blooms in his eyes.

Rudy and Durante merely ignore the outburst and encourage the boys to be seated at the front of the room to watch the final group's attempt. The guards reload their dart guns and replace the cushions.

Jeremiah, Jasper, Kajika, Max, Nathaniel, Nicholas and Yamato are the last group. Unlike the previous two, there seems to be no order, no method, other than _hide and run_. Funnily enough, this seems to actually work for them. We make it to the other side as Durante demands we go back again.

"I'm going to tackle one of the guards," Jasper says as we wait through a meteor of gunfire.

"That's a terrible idea," Jeremiah says with a frown.

"Exactly."

Jasper throws himself out and lunges into the nearest guard. He yelps and they collapse in a scuffle, with Jasper yanking the dart gun away in time to fire shots at the other guards, caught by surprise at his unorthodox tactics.

"Hah! We won." Jasper twirls the NERF gun. Even Durante got hit. "You're welcome."

"Hmph," Durante says, but not even he can hide the impressed smile. "All right. I'll concede. But now you have five dead bodies on the floor, and five dead bodies on your conscience. How do you deal with that?"

"Years of therapy?" Jasper says. "PTSD? A chronic paranoia that if I step outside I may be once again surrounded by fools with dart guns?"

"Possibly all three. Are you ready to manage that?"

"It sounds rather cumbersome, and that's without dealing with the bodies."

Rudy facepalms.

"The point of this exercise," Durante addresses the whole room, "was not to scare you, nor to irritate you with our unfair rules." He glances pointedly at Silas. "But to show you that in real life, anything can happen. In real life, there may be enemies at every corner. In real life, you can be prepared for everything and yet not prepared at all."

"It's imperative that you understand," Rudy continues, "that by merely associating with the royal family, you too may become a target for political activists." Not _rebels._ He smiles and rubs at his thigh. "I was shot, for example."

"Shot?" Nicholas echoes, jaw open.

"I barely feel it now. But understand that I did it, and that I would do it again in a heartbeat for my king and queen, and my country. And now all of you must decide whether you feel your life is worth more than the risk."

Absolute silence.

"I'll understand if you want to leave." I say quietly, singling myself out from them. "This life I lead is… not for everyone, and yesterday was a taste of what the worst days can be like. You have to grow thick skin. You have to be tough. And if you don't think you can…"

I think that everyone will pat me on the shoulder, tell me it was a great experience, and leave. But no one moves. Not a single soul.

"As shown in this drill," Rudy says, "the guards will expect you to prioritise Her Highness' life, and the lives of the other royals above your own. They will be doing the same; security will always prioritise the royal family first. You must also acknowledge this, if you wish to stay." He eyes everyone. "Again, we won't judge anyone for leaving now."

Again, not a movement. It's like not even the traitorous thought would enter their heads. My heart fills with delight. I know I picked a good bunch when I got these boys.

"Good," Rudy says with a ghost of a smile. "Then you're better people than I thought."

* * *

On the drive down to the rink for our first ever training session, Zelda is quiet. Today we've gone without Max – at her request – by sneaking out through her window and around the servant's loading bay to the parking lot, as we always did before. I don't understand why until I remember the party. What she did there.

That hard make-out session with Willow Grace.

I haven't brought it up with Zelda yet. With everything going on, I haven't had the chance to, and I thought it was too significant to discuss over text. Zelda hasn't mentioned it so I figured she'd forgotten it entirely, but by the way her whole body tenses as she gently nudges the car down the roads, calmly turning at intersections and not even trying to speed at red lights, I know something's eating at her thoughts.

As I apply make-up to hide my blotchy complexion, she sighs.

"Can we just… skip today?"

It's the first words she's said since she got into the car.

"Everything will be fine. It's the first training session. They're not expecting miracles."

Zelda glares at me sidelong. Okay. I did _try_ to avoid the conversation.

"Well… do you want to talk about it?"

"Do _you?"_

I shrug, even though she can't see it. "What you do in your life is none of my business."

"You're my best friend. Your business is my business." She clenches the wheel. "I was so drunk I didn't even really realise we… we were making out until I was on top of her."

I put down my brush so she knows she has my full attention.

"So?" I say in a small voice. "You… you like girls?"

"I… don't know."

"Oh."

"Ugh. I've been tossing and turning with it for the past few nights. Like, don't get me wrong. I enjoyed it, the sensation of kissing, and I guess I wasn't bothered she was a girl and stuff… it was fun, but…" she opens and closes her mouth several times, trying to parse her thoughts. "She lowered her hands to my waist and I freaked out."

"I… oh." I sit up. "She was going too fast?"

"No. It's not that. It was the implication. Like it was gonna' lead to… more. Somehow, even as out of my mind as I was… I just found the prospect kinda'… gross…"

"You _were_ drunk. Maybe it was a product of that?"

"I don't think so. In my rational mind now I… I agree with the sentiment. Even though I don't know exactly what that is."

I can see her drooping. Trying to change the mood I chirrup, "Well regardless of what you were planning, you could've at least locked the bathroom door."

Her lips curl into a snide grin. "Hah! Maybe then you wouldn't have thrown yourself at it."

"I— I didn't _throw_ myself at it."

"The bang was so loud you practically stopped the party." She shifts her weight. "You know Willow's been texting me like crazy since? And I've just replied with distant messages. I feel horrible but I don't see her that way. I'm just not sure about any of this. And now." She bangs her head against the wheel, and the car honks. "Now I have to see her. Every single training session."

"But not train with her," I remind. "You'll be with Bellona. In the stands."

"Yes, but even being in the same area where we can possibly make eye contact is awkward enough. She might try to interrogate you."

"And I will have nothing to give," I say, drawing a pretend zipper across my mouth.

Zelda chuckles. "Thanks. I guess I'll have to be an adult eventually and tell her I'm not interested."

At Glendale, we park and make our way inside. Expecting to go straight to the changing rooms, I'm surprised when Bellona greets Zelda and me in the foyer. Her luscious dark hair is knotted into a bun, pierced by a purple crocodile clip, and matches a wine-dark pantsuit. _She's our manager now,_ I remind myself with glee. _Play it cool._

"Ah, the Vivas sisters," Bellona greets with a smile. "Good. You're the last ones."

"Last ones?" I say.

She raises an eyebrow. "Last ones, _ma'am._ I'm your manager now, remember."

 _Oh gosh. This isn't playing it cool._ "Ma'am, sorry, ma'am."

She nods, satisfied. "Your kit, Susanetta."

From around the front desk she produces a large shrink-wrap package stuffed with my guards, pants and jersey. I take it and peel the jersey free; it's a deep purple striped with white and gold on the sleeves, like a sweater but much airier, large to fit the numerous guards beneath. The stylised _A_ in the centre of a star indicates the team, and I turn it over. _VIVAS_ , it says on the back, along with the number _7._

"Oh, it's so pretty!" I squeal, then rein it back. _Play. It. Cool._ "Thank you, ma'am."

"I should hope you find it pretty. You'll be wearing it for as long as you play on this team. And for you, Linkle…" She hands Zelda a smaller, but no less purple, package. "Not the full kit of course, but this sweater will show you're on this team with us."

"Sweet." Zelda rubs the fabric beneath her fingers. "Thank you, ma'am."

"Get changed, Vivas," she says to me. "We have a training session to begin."

The changing rooms are a hustle and bustle of girls occupying every corner. A rich smell of deodorant wafts into my nose as I patter inside and lay my things down, picking through my kit.

"Baby Su is here!"

The voice makes me jolt, but then it's joined by another ten cheers of "Yeah, Baby Su!", "Innocent lil' bean!" and "Cutie Su!".

"H-Hello," I greet.

My eyes lock with Felice – it was too much to ask that she was sick today? – and she grins, but it isn't nearly as friendly as it could've been.

She is quickly blocked by an oncoming stranger. I barely recognise her face, belonging to a girl not much older than me of ochre-toned skin and long, wispy black hair, but I know she was at the party the other night. With Rose at her side, my haunches relax.

"Hi Su!" she greets cheerily. "Excited?"

"A little nervous," I say instead.

"Why be nervous when you can be an anxious mess," says the other girl with a face between a deadpan and smug expression. "Totally don't have the entire rink on our hands."

"… Well now I'm a lot nervous."

"Maybe you should have a brownie. That'll calm you down."

My cheeks warm at the implication. Rose huffs.

"Oh, lay off, Janet. That brownie was an awful idea."

"Hey, I thought she knew what she was doing when she took it."

So this is Janet. She's tall and lanky – almost looking like Bellona herself, if it weren't for that glimmer in her eyes. One less of self-importance and more of mischief.

"I had no idea you had no idea," says Janet. "My bad. Even though walking into the bathroom door was hilarious."

I guess that's as good an apology I'm going to get.

Rose frowns. "You have such a strange sense of humour."

"Strange? So much hate," Janet scoffs. "I think you mean _great_ sense of humour."

"No, not really."

"Sorry, but I don't know any Roses." She takes my arm. "Baby Su is my friend now."

"This is really nice, but, erm." I wriggle. "I'm halfway putting my arm through my jersey sleeve."

Janet lets go and says "la mayo" as Rose giggles.

As I gently slide my new helmet over my fake glasses, Felice clears her throat. Instantly the changing room is silent. A whole new atmosphere has blanketed us, and even though I have mixed feelings about her, Felice draws my attention straight as she stands on the bench.

"Ladies. Our first training session." Her voice booms like thunder, commands like the leader of a great army. "As your centre and appointed team captain, it's my job to make sure you all pull your weight. We know the All-Stars have fallen on hard times. We know Glendale Rink is struggling. But our success lies in the principle. If management have the budget to create us, a second women's team, and call in the legendary Bellona Strike to lead, then they must believe we have the power to reverse all this hardship." She looks every one of us deep in the eye. On me, she lingers, and I have to fight to maintain eye contact. "We will work hard. We will represent the Angeles All-Stars. We will conquer hearts and minds and we will do it solely by the power of our skills and our teamwork. Can we do that?"

"Yes!" we chorus, and for the first time, I feel part of it.

"Can't hear you!"

" _Yes!"_

"Sticks in!"

It takes me a moment to realise we're doing the equivalent of a group fist-bump with our hockey sticks. Naturally I'm scrambling to put mine in last, the clacking noise against the other hockey sticks horribly lonely as the girls giggle at my slowness. Felice narrows her eyes but it's gone in moments.

"Let's show Miss Strike and the All-Star management that their investments weren't wasted!" She slams the ground. "All-Stars!"

"All-Stars!" we cheer, banging our hockey sticks.

Then we go to the ice.

Bellona meets us there. The linesman has placed numerous cones, slaloms and other obstacles in our way. Drills. Lots and lots of drills. My eyes divert to the stands, where Zelda sits in her new Angeles All-Stars sweater, and gives me a confident thumbs up.

"Welcome to your first training session, ladies," Bellona calls. "From now on, you are a team. You will train as a team. You will play as a team. You will think as a team. When all else fails, you rely on your sisters to lead you to victory. This is our motto; repeat it to me." She raises her arms. "Train as a team. Play as a team. Think as a team."

"Train as a team," we echo. "Play as a team. Think as a team."

"When all else fails, we rely on our sisters to lead us to victory."

"When all else fails, we rely on our sisters to lead us to victory."

"This we will learn as our training sessions continue. You may not know your team yet, but you will come to trust one another as intimately as if they were your own family." My backs straightens. _Felice, as my family?_ "Our first order today is to work on teambuilding exercises. Bonds take time to foster and we will not delay. Understood?"

"Yes, ma'am," comes our response.

"Then for our first challenge…" Bellona gestures to the linesman, who tugs on a piece of black material. "You will separate into pairs. One of you will be the guide. The other will skate through a small obstacle course, and they shall be blindfolded."

In what I suspect is to save time and switch us around, Bellona sorts us into pairs. _Not Felice, not Felice,_ I beg the entire time, only for my wish to come true in the most ironic way ever when I'm paired with Willow Grace. We wait in line together, with part of me wanting to put on my blindfold right away, and the other wanting to escape entirely to avoid the inevitable conversation that I see roiling in Willow's gaze.

"Hello, Susanetta," she greets quietly, hands wringing her hockey stick. "How are you feeling? You banged your head pretty hard."

"I'm fine." My helmet presses against my bruise, pulsing a low ache across my scalp. "I don't even remember the moment when I hit it."

She nods. Falls into silence. As the line progresses closer and closer, I think I'm safe from any sort of awkward conversation.

(I probably jinxed myself, right?)

"I-I really am sorry," Willow babbles suddenly. "That it happened, that is. It must hurt." She looks at the ground. "I should hope your sister Linkle helped you recover…"

Great segue. Really.

"She was too drunk to make rational decisions."

Even through the helmet I see her blush. "Is… is she blanking me? I mean… I get it, it's a party, but she's really nice and we get along well and I'd at least like to be her friend, if not anything else, but I understand if you don't want to say anything on her behalf—"

"Grace! Vivas! What are you standing around muttering for?" Bellona nudges her head. "Go!"

Thankful for the interruption, I wind the blindfold around Willow's helmet and give her an, ahem, _encouraging_ push towards the front of the 'obstacle course' (really five cones and a spare helmet). Without her vision she wobbles.

"First one's on your left— a little more left— too much left!"

She tumbles through the first cone as my stomach drops. "Ah!" she squeals. I'm very aware of everyone's stares on me. It's like being surrounded by fifty sharp knives.

"Stop! Wait, no— now go! Not so fast! There's a cone— there's a wall!"

She hits the wall with a soft _oof_. If it weren't for the pads she'd have bruises all down her shins. It's not that I'm bad at giving directions – I'm terrible – but also that Willow is bad at following them.

I dare a glance at Bellona. She has her head in her hands.

"We have some work to do, it seems."

In that moment, I wish for a sweet, sweet demise.

I skate to the back of the line, face alight, as Willow follows behind and finally keeps quiet. I pass Beverly, who gives me a sympathetic smile, and Felice, whose expression fills with ire. Another cold reminder that I don't belong.

The training session continues, and I can't be more thankful when we stop for a short break. The try-outs were hard, but these sessions are _brutal._ It's like I'm being stretched in every direction in places I have never stretched. Like ancient torture, where your limbs are attached to two different horse-drawn carriage driving opposite directions.

"You look tired," Janet muses as I suckle on the neck of my water bottle. "You know we've only done an hour, right?"

I sigh. Another two hours and I might get my wish for death.

 _No._ I shake myself off. _I'm tough._ _I do belong here. I can do this._

It's hard to believe that as I glance at the other girls, laughing and chatting amongst each other, when I'm the only one who seems exhausted. The only one who messed up the simplest of drills and exercises.

"I think you're doing great, Su," says Rose on my other side. "It's the first session. Don't worry."

"Hey." Zelda appears from through the locker doors. Her sweater hangs down her arms, but the gold matches her blonde wig. "Just thought I'd get away with you girls for a while."

"Why? What's up?" I ask.

"Bellona is going _hard_ with this apprentice thing." She takes a seat next to Rose. "Every little thing you do and she asks my opinion of it. When you complete the drills or miss a shot she asks, _what's your opinion on that?_ Hell. Remember when Beverly was talking to Madison in the line for the quick-time penalty shots? _So, Linkle, what do you think of those two?_ she goes. Like, what? They're… two people talking?"

Janet laughs darkly. "She probably wants the tea on our relationships."

Zelda chuckles. "I guess she does. In the end I just said that maybe Madison talked a lot when she was nervous, and Beverly is the comforting type, so…"

Even Zelda seems to nail it. As I visibly deflate she fixes me a look.

"You're having a hard time, huh?"

I sit up. _No, no, no. If I can princess a country, I can do a three-hour training session. Piece of cake._ "I'll be fine."

I would not, in fact, be fine.

I'm tired, I'm sweaty, but I'm desperate to prove myself as Bellona gathers us for the final set of drills around the goal posts.

"Rebounds!" she calls. "When a player makes a scoring shot that the goal tender blocks, there is a chance that the puck will remain in play – a chance for the player to skate forwards, intercept the puck as it rebounds away from the goal tender and make another shot. It is incredibly important that we hone our skills for rebound shots, as unpredictable as they can be, as they present excellent scoring opportunities."

She gestures to the goal. It's only a tiny net to work with, enclosed in a semi-circle of space called the crease. Only the goalie can skate in the crease unless a player has possession of the puck.

And I have to be one of those players.

"In this drill, there will be two players against each other. One will make a shot that the goal tender will block. The first player will then attempt to make another shot, while the second player will attempt to intercept. Sound easy enough?"

The rest of the girls chorused, whereas my voice came out like a new-born gurgle. No, no, that does _not_ sound easy.

Bellona's eyes land on me.

"Vivas, you will attempt to score. Lamb, in goal." She spends an inordinate amount of time searching the rest of the girls for an opponent – her eyes seem to glimmer as she says, "Torres, as intercept."

 _Felice._ My innards turn into ash as my courage dissolves instantly. _My opponent is Felice._

She emerges from the crowd with her trunk arms tensed. Trunk arms, might I add, that could probably poke me and send me rocketing to the other side of the rink. Her face contracts with a dirty, but arrogant look as she lumbers to my side.

"Let's begin." Bellona dots the no-pass cones on the central blue line to separate me, Rose and Felice from the others. "Remember, you want to make a clean shot after your first shot attempt, Vivas. No battles for possession."

 _It's fine,_ I tell myself over and over. The puck juggles neatly in the toe of my stick. _Totally fine. I'm not screwed at all._

Felice grunts. "Make the shot, Vivas."

I swing the stick. Even though my delivery was wobbly it manages to reach Rose, who was more prepared than I was, and thwacks it left. Totally not the direction I was expecting from the angle.

"Go!" Bellona yells.

The moment's hesitation means Felice pelts away, like the Road Runner to my way-less-intelligent Wile E. Coyote. Realising too late, I pump my limbs, honing in on the corner of the puck now skidding to a stop. I'm faster than Felice, and I get there same time she does.

The girls are cheering and crying out. I think I hear Zelda from the side lines too, but I can't be sure when my brain is in _get the puck_ mode. Felice spins hard turning her stick in an attempt to fling the puck away from me. For a moment her face engulfs my sight: sweat dapples her cheeks, her brow, but she's still smiling. Still confident she can roast me like a Thanksgiving turkey.

She goes to pass, but I rotate the stick and drive it forwards, stealing the puck and twisting in the same motion.

"Vivas in possession!"

 _Goodbye obnoxious smirk._ Felice growls. It's a rebound shot drill but she's still coming for me. The train has left the station with the intention of flying off-rail to demolish Gail Town.

"Score!" someone yells.

 _Thwack._ I hit as hard as I can.

And Rose blocks it easily.

"All right! Time out!" Bellona calls.

My shoulders sink. The moment's hesitation cost me. Even though I got the puck, it was only on part of Felice's underestimating me. She won't be doing that again.

"Ladies, what could Vivas have done better?"

Janet, the traitor, raises her hand. "Like, maybe, not hesitate?"

"Indeed Rebounds are unexpected. That is their nature. You can make good judgement based on the angle of your shot, but even those can be inaccurate. You must be prepared for every scenario. That is why these drills are necessary."

As Bellona moves onto the next pair, Felice and I return to the group. She doesn't say anything, but it's all in her stiff, closed-off body language. She doesn't like me – that much is obvious, but it's worse than that. I'm beneath her. I don't deserve to be here.

She glares at me for a moment more, then joins the group.

And a small thought enters my head.

 _Maybe I'm not cut out for this after all._

* * *

With a heavy heart I sneak my way back around to the palace.

On the way home, Zelda seemed to sense my distress and didn't press me for details, leaving our car ride quiet and sullen. Her first day was better than my first day, that's for sure. She didn't get completely shown up by people who are supposed to be her teammates.

As the wall slides in place behind me, I steady my tired arms against the cold, damp stone. _Felice._ No doubt about it, she's responsible for a good chunk of my current misery, and probably will continue to be responsible if I don't shape up. If I don't live up to some unreasonably high expectations for her ideal hockey team.

It was only the first training session, but why do I feel like I've been this bone-deep tired for years?

 _Deep breaths, Gail._ I still have Zelda, Rose and maybe even Janet, for all her strange humour. Zelda and Rose definitely have my back, support me, but with Felice as the centre and nominated captain of the team, she's the primary obstacle to achieving personal greatness. I'm never going to be good enough.

I puff out a staccato breath. The reason I'm already so tired is because I've never worked so hard. Palace life has made me lazy – I need to get back into a regular fitness routine if I have any hope of keeping up. That would be a good start. Then I can work on my confidence.

 _Tomorrow._

For now, I head back up to the stairs to the receiving chamber. I still have the wall to climb, so I can't relax yet.

Then I hear a voice from behind the wall.

"—me alone. Please."

My breath hitches. That's Roy.

"You know I won't," another replies softly. Cami. A door shuts. "You know that's not how this works."

I pad as close to the wall as I dare. A sliver of light breaches the crack, giving me the barest trace of movement. Why Roy and Cami are in this room is beyond me, but by Roy's sharp tone, I can only guess it's for privacy. This wing of the palace is the least attended by guards, servants and royals alike.

"Damn it, Cami. Damn it! Why do you have to say it like that? With nothing but pity? Why can't you hate me so it makes everything easier?"

"It's not your fault."

"It is! I— I'm useless—!"

"Stop saying things like that. You are _not_ useless."

"I can't even do this one thing, Cami. It's one, simple thing. How can I—" He takes a deep, shuddering breath. "You should hate me for how I've disappointed you and instead all you do is shower me in empathy and kindness and I can't stand it! I'm a failure of a husband! I… I'm a failure as a king!"

"Screw your titles for one second, Roy!" I reel back at Cami's words. "Listen to yourself! You're acting like this is the end of the world when it's not! And for goodness sake, I love you. I always will, and that will never change, no matter—"

"Just stop, please." He moves until he's close to the wall. Close to me, on the other side. I hear every ounce of mercy in his small, bleak voice. "Please."

"Then take my words to heart." Cami nears him with soft footsteps. "I won't hate you senselessly."

"You should."

"I won't."

He moves away. The door opens.

"Just… leave me alone. Please."

It shuts. Cami is alone.

I sink down to my knees, eyes wide. Unable to process.

And it isn't long until I hear the quiet sobs from the other side of the wall.

* * *

 **A/N:** And I oop— [already hears Ginger screaming in the distance].

Big thanks for your patience. Basically my American friend was over for two weeks, and then when she left, I was immediately kidnapped into dogsitting at a friend's house for another two weeks, and as you can imagine my word output trickled to near zero. However this chapter clocked in at 7k words so I hope that suffices as an apology for my lateness. :P

A challenging chapter but so much dang fun to write. Nerf antics! Hockey! Fighting about rebels! Janet! Sheng (for the one person who does care about him lol)! And... a Roymilla clash?! Gasp! I'd love to know your thoughts about everything so let me know.

Thank you for reading!

~ GWA

NTT: "I would never cuss in front of an innocent child."


	24. The School of Hard Knocks

For the first time in my life I fear a summons to Cami's office.

It had been a long, agonising wait for Cami to leave the receiving chamber yesterday night. A long, agonising wait for her crying to stop, for her deep breaths to resume, for her renewed footsteps to march into the hallway and far, far away from me. I don't know what happened after that. Whether she went back to her quarters.

The ones she shares with Roy.

I have known Roy my whole life and Cami for pretty much half of it, and never before have I heard an argument of such a scale. It drops a stone of dread down my throat, so thick and heavy that it drags my feet even as I turn the last corridor until the offices are in view. Cami's, on the right as always. Roy's is on the left, but the door is closed. Even with heavy guard presence, it's silent. Eerie.

I hate it. I hate what overhearing such a row could mean for them both. Could mean for our family.

They were supposed to be the fairy tale couple I should aspire to be. Not… whatever that was yesterday.

 _Leave me alone._ It rings a hollow bell in my chest.

Yet I knock on Cami's door anyway.

She opens after the third knock. I don't know what I expected her to be, to look like, but not exactly the same. Like yesterday didn't happen at all. She's bright and cheerful and comfortably herself in an oversized dusk rose sweater. Maybe a little paler than usual? Or am I reading too much into it?

"Gail, come in," she greets cheerily. "Take a seat. I wanted to talk to you about a possible Selection excursion."

Not a divorce. Okay. That's a start.

I sit in the armchair as Cami makes for the lip of her desk. I search her face, desperate for any sign, but there's nothing: her make-up is flawless and her dark eyes are normal and not bloodshot or shadowed.

"What were you thinking?"

She reaches for a bundle of documents behind and hands it to me. The letters are handwritten, several of them, in the clumsy but endearing calligraphy of numerous six- to nine-year-olds.

The first reads,

 _Dear Queen Camilla,_

 _Please come to our school, Los Angeles Elementary, because it is opening soon and we want to say thank you for giving us the money and plans to build it. It has a new swimming pool and it looks fun. You are the best queen and my favourite queen._

 _Also please bring Princess Gail because we want to ask her about the Selection._

 _Thank you._

 _Beth, aged seven._

I skim the rest but they're all the same. A request to visit Los Angeles Elementary, nestled right in the heart of the city just south of us. It's not even far from Glendale Ice Rink.

"This was the school you helped redesign, right?"

"That's right. I made the schematics during Roy's Selection many years ago, and they've only just finished their new sports building. The last funds were gifted by an anonymous donor and now they want to hold a grand ceremony to officiate its opening."

The last document in the bundle is an official and professional request from the school's principal for Cami to cut the rope. She laughs sheepishly.

"I would go but I don't think I can stand to be too close to the swimming pool. Designing it and actually being near it are two very different things. You know how I am with large bodies of water."

"I know." I replace the letters on her desk. "So you want me to go in your stead?"

"Would you? It will be a nice, small event you and some of the Selected could attend. I'm sure the children would love it."

Given I haven't been on any dates with any of them since the parade, it would be nice to get back into the swing of things. My chest constricts; I still haven't forgotten about the attack in New Orleans either. All these painful thoughts swell in my brain.

"I don't know." I choose my words carefully. "Has Roy approved this? Since the parade I would've thought he'd be more high-strung about it."

I see it. The flicker of pain. It's gone instantly in her eyes, but it lingers in the way she moves, robotic and stiff as she folds herself into her chair.

"It's closer to home than New Orleans. I'll talk to him."

"You mean convince him?"

"He knew I was designing the school before. He won't mind you going as long as you're heavily guarded. As always."

I consider blurting that I overheard the argument, but keep quiet. It would be nice to understand exactly what it was about, but that would give up that I was definitely not asleep at the time. Or with my guard. Or even in my room.

"Right. Yes. Then I accept." I stand. "Who should I take?"

"That's up to you. Perhaps a smaller party this time."

Well, I know a handful of the boys that I don't know very well yet. I nod my head stiffly. "Okay."

Cami frowns. "Are you? Okay, I mean."

"I'm fine."

But really, I'm the one who should be asking that question.

* * *

Cami makes good on her promise to talk to Roy – however she does – and I'm approved to visit Los Angeles Elementary School by evening, to visit in the next few days.

"Another excursion with you?" Jeremiah grins. "I should be honoured you chose me again."

The car is cramped with me and Jeremiah, and Maurice and Kajika opposite. I was told Cami intended to wish us goodbye, but with her sick this morning I'm left without any expectations on what to do. Go. Shake some hands. Cut a ribbon?

"Well, I remembered you were good with Tay, and if you're good with Tay, I hope you'll be good with other kids too."

He sits upright, like he's delighted I took notice. "Sure! Kids are cuties."

The other two don't look as keen. Maurice slouches opposite so far that his legs brush mine, but he's cleaned up nicely in a tailored suit, dark maroon with brown dots. It's kind of like a subtler version of Jasper's taste in clothing; he's weird but only weird people will understand.

"What is it? A sport's building?"

"That's right. A swimming pool, to be exact."

"Nice. We, er, won't have to swim though, right?"

"Why?" I waggle my eyebrows. "Did you forget to bring a bathing suit?"

"I didn't realise I had the opportunity to bless the world with my rock hard abs." He flexes, nudging Kajika to his right. "Looks like you'll just have to settle for Kajika for now."

Maurice is easily the slimmest of the three of them, whereas Kajika looks like he could bench-press a small island. _Chonk,_ I guess Ben would call him. He and Sheng could have a chonk-off. Kajika has tied his hair into a bun and slid into a simple T-shirt, cardigan and smart black jeans – the most casual I've seen any of the Selected. The veins of his neck pop out as he laughs gently, quietly.

"I don't think this is the right place for any sort of flexing, Maurice, but thank you for the non-compliment nonetheless."

"Gotta' show those kids what to aspire to be, right?"

Jeremiah chuckles darkly. "Yes. They'd definitely wouldn't want to be you."

Maurice feigns hurt as we reach the gates of the school. Security presence is already heavy, and palace guards have settled into their positions around us. Gates shut us into a drive that dips into a parking lot surrounded by low, grey buildings and a garden on the right. The garden's blooms are close to wilting as September chills the air.

At the entrance of the main hall, the principal curtsies and shakes my hand first. An older lady with grey hair shot with sparkly silver streaks, her movements are practiced but soft, what I would expect with someone who works with children. She kind of reminds me of Omma.

"Your Highness, it's a pleasure to see you today. I'm so sorry to hear the queen is unable to attend, but I'm so happy you could come in her stead. I'm Principal Isabelle Monroe."

I introduce Jeremiah, Maurice and Kajika, and with the guard contingent close behind she gives us a tour of the grounds. A short tour since the complex isn't very big, even though the school houses over two thousand kids. We come last to the maths corridors, where we will wait until the opening ceremony.

"After the ribbon cutting, we will host a short signing and photography session with a few of our students." She holds her hands together like in prayer. "As you can imagine, all of our students wanted to meet you but we decided it was better to cut it to the top from each grade. Some have even written you letters!"

"Oh, how sweet!"

"It is! They've been buzzing about it for weeks. And to meet a few of your Selected, too. The Selection is all anyone ever talks about."

Strange to think my Selection even reaches into the hearts of elementary school kids. I feel like they should be watching something more age-appropriate, than the dates and drama and kisses.

When she leaves, we sink into the chairs. They're so small that I just about fit, but the boys, especially Kajika, struggle squeezing in so much that they end up sitting on the desk itself. Refreshments laden the teacher's desk at the front, and Maurice helps himself to shortbread and watered orange juice.

"So do we all just clap when you cut the ribbon?" he asks.

"Pretty much. It's the interaction afterwards that we have to worry about. No cussing." I look pointedly at Maurice.

He places the back of his hand to his forehead. "I would never cuss in front of an innocent child."

"I find it hard to believe you," Jeremiah mutters, as Kajika laughs, "since half of your band's songs have swear words in every other lyric."

"Hey now. It was the Selection that rocketed the Old Babes to fame. I didn't think I was going to get Selected and therefore associated with so much vulgarity. And anyway, I'm just the innocent drummer."

"You don't song-write?" asks Kajika.

"Nah. I leave that to the lead singer, Meryl. She's the lyrical genius." He rubs the back of his neck; his fingers tangle in his curly hair. "Kind of weird. The Old Babes got picked up by a record label so now would be the best time to make new music, but me being here means they don't have a drummer."

"They might replace you," Jeremiah says jokingly, though by the grimace on Maurice's face, this is anything but a joke.

"I'm sure that wouldn't happen," I quickly add. "You're the one that got them their fame."

"True," he says. "Though not by any musical means, hah. I could go solo. Do drum cameos in other people's songs." He laughs. "I know Ben would follow me wherever I'd go. He laps up that good jazz shit like a thirsty man laps water."

"Odd metaphor, but not wrong," says Jeremiah, then proudly adds, "If you're looking for band members, I can help."

"Oh?" Maurice laces his fingers together. "And what does the great Jeremiah Hill play?"

"The harmonica."

I nearly snort juice through my nose. "Really?"

"Hey, it's great," he protests. "I can serenade anyone with my harmonica."

"Now _that_ I'd like to see." Maurice waggles his fingers. "Forget the ribbon cutting. Let's hold a concert. I play drums. Jeremiah on harmonica."

Kajika raises a hand. "I can ting a triangle?"

"Sold. Princess?"

"Erm. I can dance?"

"Damn. Where's the K-Pop idol when you need him? He could sing _and_ dance." He shakes his head. "Sorry but you're going to need to be more talented than that."

"Boo. What will you call yourselves, anyway? The Schmelected?"

"Excellent. So you do have skills. With word play like that, you could be our song-writer."

A knock comes at the door. "Are you ready, Your Highness, sirs?"

"Schmelected, it's our time to shine!" Maurice points his arm like how a knight points his sword and marches his way to the door, with a giggling me, Jeremiah and Kajika in tow.

Outside the sports hall, a small crowd has formed. Kids and their parents are shepherded behind two barriers that bisect a small path for us to parade down. Cheering razes the air, and I wave politely to children and adults alike, some who are holding up signs like _Maurice is my Patronus, Kajika to Win the Selection_ and even one that is definitely not from a youngster that says _Step on me Jeremiah_.

"Parents, teachers, students of Los Angeles Elementary, Your Highness and sirs, thank you for coming out today!" Principal Monroe calls out as the crowd quietens to a low, trilling rumble. "I am thrilled to officiate the opening of our new sports building, now and forever dubbed the _Daugherty Building,_ in honour of our queen and primary director for the renewal project, Queen Camilla Schreave. Although she could not join us personally today, please give her a round of applause!"

The cheers are happy and vibrant. I'm sad that Cami couldn't be here to see it; she would've gone bright red.

"We are, however, honoured at the presence of her wonderful sister-in-law, Her Royal Highness, Princess Gail Schreave, and her lovely Selected, Jeremiah Hill, Maurice Elsmore, and Kajika Bahe!"

More cheers. This time my cheeks flare and I wave. The boys are soaking the attention, too. Even Kajika, usually quiet and reserved, is grinning to his multitude of fans.

"I would be remiss not to mention all the hard-working people who contributed to the success of the project. The Schreave family have our eternal gratitude, but I would also like to extend our thanks to the numerous designers, planners, logistic divisions, electricians, plumbers and builders, and of course, our patient staff, teachers and students, who have all supported the project. Without your enthusiasm, we never would have reached this point. Thank you.

"Finally I want to say a good word and a huge thank you to the anonymous donor who helped push the project's completion closer. We aren't sure who you are, but we are forever in your debt."

A moderate clap follows. An anonymous donor? Mysterious. I scan the faces in the crowd like I could just uncover the face of the benevolent parents who may secretly be billionaires.

"And now, without further ado…"

Principal Monroe hands me a comically-large pair of metal scissors. I nearly drop at the sheer might of them. "Come on!" I say to my Selected, and they join in, holding a piece of the handle as the scissors cuts cleanly through the red ribbon in the doorway.

A fanfare trumpets behind us. Principal Monroe leads us through the foyer to the open space of the swimming pool, beautiful and fluorescent in the afternoon light that filters through the high square windows. To our right, the changing rooms and showers. The children cheer behind us.

I can't help but laugh at the irony. The swimming pool Daugherty Building. Named after a hydrophobe.

After the crowds are trickled inside to look, the boys and I are taken to the hall to set up the meet-and-greet and photography sessions. The hall is an impressive, wide room boarded with beige panelling and decorated with either certificates of award or oil paintings – mostly the former. When the chosen few are allowed inside, most glow at the sight of me and the Selected.

One of the first is a young girl, who must be about Tay's age, called Brigit. Such awe gleams from her eyes that it's hard not to think about everything I've done that would taint her view of me. Like starting a Selection out of spite. Or eating a funny brownie.

After the photographs are taken she rushes up to me without hesitation.

"You're the best! You're so pretty!" She plies me with compliments as easily as licking a lollipop. "Do you have maids that do your hair every day?"

"I have one maid, yes. Her name is Aderyn and she is lovely."

"Can she do my hair?" Brigit asks, looking around.

"She's not here." She deflates and I instantly feel like I've done the equivalent of murdering her entire family. "But I can plait your hair?"

"Yeah! Yeah!"

Her parents go to refuse, but too late, Brigit plonks herself at my feet. So I run my hands along her smooth, blonde hair as her parents chat to me and I weave the locks between each other. It's not practiced, and I know Aderyn would probably laugh, but Brigit loves every moment, and that's really what counts (so take that Aderyn).

My eyes wander. Jeremiah regales a handful of fifth graders with some story – he makes a waving motion around his mouth and the kids laugh. That harmonica of his. Even when he doesn't have it he can capture their attention. Kajika, just by his side, has a line formed of impatient third-graders who want a piggyback ride. His bodyguard looks about ready to faint.

Then there's Maurice, who, despite all his bluster earlier, does _not_ look comfortable surrounded by so many eager children. Shoulders high, his frantic eyes instantly find mine in a _please help me_ scenario. But I can't do anything. Brigit's plait calls. _Not good with kids,_ I think with a frown, filing the information away for later. Has he ever spoken to Tay?

After the photograph session all the children line up to get their notebooks signed. Brigit squees so hard I can barely understand her as I leave a looping signature on the corner of a glass frame, where she intends to put the photo her parents took of me plaiting her hair. I soon lose track of names and my hand aches as I write signature after signature with smile after smile. Little Beth, aged seven, gets her homework book signed and promises never to throw it away.

"I-I wrote this for you," she says, blushing as she gives me a handwritten letter.

I place a hand to my chest. "Oh, how sweet! Thank you so much!"

"I told the other kids I was writing you a letter and then they all copied me, so you should know it was my idea first."

I wink. "I will keep that in mind."

And she's right. Soon I have a little handful's worth of cute, handwritten paper – some plain, some pink and decorated with stars (good taste). At the very end of the line, a little boy awaits, clutching nervously at his letter, and shyly offers a stray page from a lined notebook to sign.

"Please?"

"Of course." Being no stranger to shy kiddos, I smile and do my best not to overwhelm him more than he already is. "What's your name?"

"Hunter."

"That's a lovely name." So I write, _To Hunter, you're great! Don't forget that. HRH Princess Gail xo._ The line of his mouth wobbles even as I give him the scrap back. "Is that letter for me?"

He holds it close to his chest. "Will you read it in private?"

"I will."

The letter slides to me. I add it to my pile. Hunter scampers away; poor kid must've been terrified out of his wits. With the line finished, I stretch and stand up, and then find Jeremiah and Kajika entertaining the stragglers. Maurice watches from an isolated distance as Principal Monroe shoos the last of them out with their parents, so we are alone.

"Thank you!" Principal Monroe claps her hands. "That was a wonderful event. Did you enjoy it?"

"It was simply lovely." I hold up the letters. "And I got fanmail!"

"Hey, so did I!" Jeremiah's one letter pales to my several, but it's sweet nonetheless.

"Hmph. Just because _you_ both got letters." Maurice flicks a curl back. "Luckily we don't need the validation. Right, Kaji?"

"Er. Right." Kajika raises an eyebrow in disagreement but doesn't outright shoot him down. Probably the best thing to do; I'm not sure how much of that bluster is for show.

We say our thanks to Principal Monroe – who shakes me hand for so long I almost feel my arm pop a socket – and with the guards giving the okay, we shoot back to the palace in the limo.

After some convincing (read: absolutely no convincing), Jeremiah decides to declare the contents of the letter to us. Raymond, aged ten, believes he is the best candidate to win the Selection. No offence to Maurice and Kajika. "Hah! Listen to this next part." Jeremiah shows the letter to Maurice. " _Can you ask Ben to do the Fortnite dance on the Report next time?"_

"The what?" I ask.

Maurice shoves the letter back at Jeremiah. "Yeah, let's unanimously veto that decision." He nods a head to my letters, tucked to my chest. "Go on, Your Highness. Let's hear some of yours then."

Kajika shrugs his interest, so I open mine and begin reading. Most of them are about how beautiful I am (correct), how lovely I am on TV (also correct), and how I am an inspiration for them to do lots of good for the world (very correct).

" _Dear Princess Gail,_ " I read. " _Do you know if Prince Tay is available for lunch because I would like to be his friend because he is rich and I want a Segway for my birthday._ "

"Aw—" Maurice starts, then, "Wait, what?"

We laugh. Some of these kids are sweet, honest – maybe too honest, but never intentional callous. I can't help but endear to their words, and it gives me hope for the next generation of people.

"And the last one, from Hunter. Fifth grade."

"You know it's gonna' be good when the kid is called _Hunter,"_ Maurice mutters.

The handwriting is blocky and awkward and just getting it's footing, not at all unlike what I'd expect of a fifth grader. I shoot Maurice a look and clear my throat.

" _Dear Princess Gail. I hope your visit to the school was pleasant, and that my donation goes a long way for the pupils of Los Angeles Elementary School now and forever. That is what it looks like to invest in the future._

 _But I doubt your family would understand that, would they?—"_

Suddenly it's like the car seat has been stolen from underneath me. The world is swaying.

This is not a letter from a child.

I read on in my head.

 _I suspect by now you have noticed our increased presence. You have noticed that we are not bumbling fools operating from a rundown garage. We are a real presence, a real cause for concern. No doubt word has spread amongst the nobility that the Rebel Resurgence is becoming more and more persistent in our efforts to catch your attention._

 _So the question remains: has this caught your attention yet?_

"Your Highness?" Kajika asks in a quiet voice. "Are you okay?"

Despite my hands, shaking so violently I can barely keep the letter still, I read.

 _If we have, and you have come to your senses, then I would like to arrange a meeting. You'll find enclosed at the bottom co-ordinates and time of our rendezvous location. You may bring a contingent of guards, however, we shall meet alone. I would once again like to discuss my proposal._

 _Should you decide not to appear, then we shall simply continue. And I wouldn't like to think about how the nobility would react to your equivalent of sweeping the lice under a rug… when it is their rug that the lice shall feast upon._

 _A good evening to you and your Selected._

I take one last, tremoring breath for the last line.

 _Signed, the Voice._

* * *

 **A/N:** Le gasp! Another day, another sneaky way to get to Gail. Hope you enjoyed the chapter!

Let me know what you thought on the Roymilla tension, the sports building opening ceremony, Jeremiah and Maurice and Kajika, and the mysterious letter...

~ GWA

NTT: "Are you insinuating that this _Emseeyoo_ is better than _the Princess Diaries?_ In my household?"


	25. Girl's Afternoon, Plus Roy, Plus Ben

When I share the letter with Roy and Cami, Cami sobs.

"Oh, this is so horrible," she says, taking deep breaths as Roy gives her his chair. "The letter is one thing, but getting a child to deliver it? That's just… it's…"

"It's despicable," Roy finishes. "Utterly despicable." He scans the letter's contents again, slams it on his desk and continues pacing, walking stick thwacking the wooden floor with each step. "The Voice is persistent."

Cami's fingers reach for the letter, and she reads and rereads it in our silence. The lines of her face harden with each word, like she's expelling all her emotions. No more tears shed for rebels. Hands hastily wipe away the droplets from her cheeks.

"They funded the school, too. Anonymously."

As much as I hate to say it, I do. "I mean, that's not a bad thing…"

"It is. It's a power play." Roy stops pacing and sits on the lip of his desk. I don't fail to notice how gently he takes the letter back, as if to spare Cami its horrors. "And it means they have access to money. A lot of it, judging by how quickly they finished the building. They could've chosen any school in the whole country to fund, but they picked this one specifically because of their ties to us."

"Their ties to me," Cami corrects, then shakes her head. "I can't believe the whole event is tainted because of this…"

"That's not true." Roy gestures to me. "Aside from the letter, Gail and the Selected had a great time. Didn't you, Gail?"

There's a note of desperation. He doesn't want Cami sad. Strange, when I compare it to only a few days ago, where Cami embodied the word, and Roy had been the one to make her feel that way.

 _Don't think about that now,_ I chasten, even though the thought lingers like feet odour in a shoe cabinet.

"Nobody knows the letter or the boy were sent by rebels," I reassure. "I didn't even tell the Selected. I clammed up and didn't read the rest, and the ride was silent the whole way back. They might suspect, but…"

"The school opening was a success." Roy goes around the desk and holds onto Cami's hand. "So don't worry about that. Please?"

She doesn't look convinced, and I can't blame her.

"What will we do, then?" she says instead. "The rebels want to meet Gail—"

"They will not," he asserts. "Gail is not going."

"What?" I say, even though I heard and processed perfectly what he said. "You _don't_ want me to meet them?"

"Absolutely not."

"Why? It's just to talk."

"It's as I said. All clever moves and smoke and mirrors and flexes of power. They want you in their territory, alone, so that you might bend to their wills."

"But if we want this to end, Roy… I think I have to meet them." By the clenching of his facial muscles, he doesn't like the sound of that. "Their proposed date is in two weeks."

"Yes, and that means we need to start pooling our resources to take down the Resurgence as soon as possible. To fight. And there's only one expert when it comes to their inner workings." He opens the office door; Rudy is stationed outside, like always. "I need you to make a call as a matter of urgency. Tell her to come at earliest convenience, and to pack for a long trip."

"To whom?" Rudy asks, already making to leave down the corridor.

"Lady Lilly Carter," Roy says. One of his former Selected.

And a former spy for the rebels.

* * *

Lilly Carter's _earliest convenience_ turns out to be the very next morning. Rain pelts the palace walls and shatters against the glass, and it thrums like a drumbeat as Roy, Cami, Rudy, Durante, Zelda and June, JJ, the Selected boys and I gather in the front foyer. Though the sound is ominous, I hope her visit is anything but.

Her car pulls in and I let out an excited squee. I can't help it. Lilly has been around as long as Cami has, and though she may not live here, she's had such a positive impact on my life. Back when Roy was a newer king and the government were freshly plucked to manage the country, Lilly would visit all the time to share her knowledge of the rebels' internal affairs. And she'd always make time for me, no matter how busy she was. Playing hockey in the corridors or sharing a stack of blueberry pancakes. Having tea and gossip with Cami and me are some of my fondest memories – we called it girl's afternoon. (Roy got jealous.)

I clap my hands together at Cami's side. "Do you think we'll have time for a girl's afternoon?"

"I'm not sure." Cami may be frowning but her bouncy sentiment is there, too. She's looking forward to this just as much as I am. "We will be very busy with… you know."

"I know, but we can't work on it all the time. She'll want to know all the gossip from my Selection."

"What gossip?" Roy asks from Cami's other side. "Is there drama in your Selection, Gail?"

"If there was, I wouldn't tell you."

"But Cami knows everything?"

"Maybe," she mutters mysteriously.

"So you'll tell her but you won't tell your blood brother, who has practically raised you from birth, and occasionally had to change your smelly diapers?"

"Now I'm definitely not telling you anything," I say, and Cami coughs to stifle a laugh.

When the doors open, five umbrellas come down and fold, revealing Lilly like the centrepiece of _Singing in the Rain_. Little droplets hang like earrings from her curled blonde hair, framing a pale, gentle face that breaks into a smile at the sight of us. Her cream dress flutters behind her as she fast-walks inside.

Roy goes first, embracing her in a long hug. They don't exchange words – Lilly is deaf, and as they pull away, her hands form rapid shapes. Roy signs back; my view is blocked so I can't see exactly what they're saying, but Lilly seems to sign something like _over the moon._

She and Cami hug next. This one is more tender, a hug between friends who have bonded beyond constraints of time and space. I think it has something to do with the fact that they were both Selected and both victims of the Southern Rebels' attacks, and something like that hones the strongest of friendships into diamond.

She comes to me and her grin opens again. " _Gail, it's so lovely to see you."_

" _You too! You look great!"_ My signs are clumsy in comparison, but Lilly understands it all the same. It's like my third mom has finally come home.

" _We must talk about your Selection. How about an early lunch tea after I've settled in?"_

"No." Roy signs as he speaks. "We have too much to discuss."

But she holds up a hand. " _I haven't been here in months, and you immediately want to jump into matters? We cannot let politics dictate all of our precious and rare time together."_

"It's urgent."

" _It can wait until the afternoon."_ At his stiff expression, she touches a hand to his shoulder before signing. " _You can join us this time?"_

Cami lets out a laugh. "We can make an exception, if there are no objections from Gail, to invite you to girl's afternoon."

"No objections," I say, and though Roy nods, his jaw works with unspoken argument.

After Lilly catches up with Zelda's family, I take the liberty of introducing all my Selected boys. It's fun going down the line, exchanging handshakes and making polite small-talk about how they're feeling about everything and whether they have questions for a Selection runner-up. I act as translator; Lilly has her own for hearing people wherever she goes, but doesn't like to employ them at the palace.

"This is Nathaniel Durham," I say and sign, both for Nathaniel and Lilly's benefit. "He's a psychology student."

They shake hands. Lilly signs, " _Oh, how wonderful. I did always find psychology an interesting subject."_

" _Me too."_ To my absolute surprise, Nathaniel signs back. Lilly is taken aback too – his signs aren't fumbled like mine are. " _People tend to underestimate how important it is."_

" _You're right,"_ Lilly signs, then, " _Your sign language is so good! Are you fluent?"_

" _Thank you. I'm not fluent yet, but I have been learning for my degree."_

They swap hand gestures as some of the boys get restless. The foyer isn't totally quiet as the attendants cart Lilly's bags – of which there are several big, _big_ cases – to her quarters, but it must be jarring watching a conversation unfold and not being able to understand a single word.

"I had no idea you could sign," I say to Nathaniel.

"You don't know a lot about me."

I withhold a grimace. I don't think he meant it as a slight, but I feel it nonetheless. I can't date all the boys at once, and some, frankly, I just don't want to go on dates with. Nathaniel sinks to the bottom of my priority list.

Finally we get to the end of introductions, and to JJ. His blond hair's tied back today, forming a tuft at the back of his neck like a cute little dog's tail.

"Hello, Lady Lilly Carter." He goes for the handshake, which she promptly returns. To add another surprise, he starts to sign. " _My name is Jonathan Just, but JJ is fine. I teach the Selected history."_

" _No need for a title. Lilly is fine."_ She smiles. " _I have heard so much about you."_

His eyes pop. "You have?" He fumbles. " _You have?"_

Her lip quirks. " _Of course! Roy tells me you're a great teacher."_ Then to me, " _Have you been studying hard?"_

"Definitely," I say.

JJ coughs. "Now I wouldn't say that was quite true, Your Highness."

"How do you know sign language, JJ?" I ask him to change the subject.

He signs as he says, "My son, Easton, is hard of hearing. Has been since he was little. You didn't notice his hearing aid in class the other day?" He shrugs. "I was worried one day he'd lose his hearing entirely so we've been learning sign language together. Apologies if mine is a little rough. It's only been three years of studying."

" _Your sign language is perfectly understandable. You are very adept for someone who has only been learning it for three years."_ She nods. " _If you need any tips, please ask me. I would be happy to help you."_

"I'd appreciate that immensely."

After JJ and the Selected are dismissed, Lilly comments, _"What a nice man._ _It's such a lovely thing to do for his son."_ Then she fixes me a stern look. " _You really ought to study."_

I withhold a groan. " _History is boring."_

" _History is our guidebook for the future,"_ she replies. " _Why don't you invite one of your Selected to our girl's afternoon tea? It seems Roy is keen to talk about business, but it would be nice to catch up first, which he will have to accept if there is someone else there."_

" _Okay,"_ I think, combing through my options. " _Anyone in particular?"_

" _Your choice."_

Nathaniel's comment still stings, so even though he would be handy being able to understand everything, I'm going to have to choose someone else. Someone who's got the history thing down.

And I know exactly who to choose.

* * *

"You could literally sign between each other _Bye Felicia this man,_ and I wouldn't have a clue until I'm manhandled by your bodyguard and thrown flying through the window."

Having no idea who Felicia is, I settle a hand on Ben's, calming the jittery fingers which are fumbling and finagling at each other like stalks of wheat in an erratic wind. The cosy set-up in the downstairs Illéa wing receiving room is a hastily crammed circle of sofas and armchairs surrounding a low glass table and a set of placemats and glasses. Enough for five.

"We're just having tea, and if you do get manhandled it'll be out the door, not the window. They're too nice to shatter." I sit to his right. "This is the first time I've ever invited someone to afternoon tea with my family. It'll be fun!"

" _Fun_? Yeah, sure. So much fun with the _king and the queen and a former Selected of Illéa._ "

"They're really not that scary. I promise."

The door opens. Roy is the first to step inside, arms like stiff rods at his side, and when he sees Ben his sour demeanour fractures even more.

"Why is Mr Santiago here?"

Ben goes pale.

"I invited him," I say haughtily as I wrap a protective arm around his. "At Auntie Lilly's request."

Wisely Roy withholds a remark about it. "Well I hope you enjoy the tea."

"Don't worry, Your Majesty. I'm always thirsty for the tea."

Roy gives him a strange look and settles into the seat opposite, and Ben leans to me. "I may have misinterpreted what he meant."

I snort. "You think?"

Cami ends up on Ben's left. Her plaid grey dress fans out against the cushions. "Welcome to girl's afternoon plus Roy plus yourself, Sir Santiago."

"Ben, please, Your Majesty."

Cami smiles. "Ben. Don't worry about being on your best behaviour. It's just a casual meal."

Lilly sits next to me just as the attendants bring in three three-tiered cake stands jammed with sandwiches, tartlets, and scones. Flutes are filled with champagne, and the ice cubes in pitchers of water tingle as they settle on lace doilies.

Lilly sighs in a sing-song way. " _Oh, I have missed the chocolate cakes!"_

"And us, I hope?" asks Cami.

" _No, just the cake,"_ Lilly teases, and we all clink glasses and tuck in. Lilly catches us up to her frequent whereabouts and hobbies, the new people she's met and the places she's been to. She regales us of tales of staying in family homes in Mexico City or the within the caps of ice in glacial Labrador.

" _It's quite tiring,"_ she admits between sips of tea and nibbles on scone. " _Sometimes I think I would like to settle down."_

To Roy's credit, even he seems more relaxed now, though that might be the champagne. "You have your house in Kent. You can always go back there."

" _Of course, but it's not the same. I love what I do but I would like a long, long break after…"_ she cuts off with a wary glance at Ben, then powers on, " _after I sort some issues. I would like to relax."_

Cami's eyes twinkle. "With a boyfriend?"

My eyes pop. "Ooooooooh! Have you got a boyfriend?"

Her cheeks flush. " _No! No, I do not."_ She glares at Cami. " _You know my stance on dating at the moment."_

"What stance?" Roy looks between them. "Why don't I know anything?"

"If it helps, Your Majesty," pipes Ben. "I don't know anything either."

Roy huffs. "So I know about the same as a random Selected!"

"I see it more as neither of you are women and neither of you have been invited to girl's afternoon before," Cami remarks.

Lilly waves them all away. " _My stance is that I have dated many men since the Selection and all of them were after either my fame, my position in society, or my money. Never me as a person."_

I reel back. Wow, I had no idea that happened to Lilly; she's so pretty she practically has men falling at her heels. I glance at Ben; could this happen to him, too, if I don't choose him? Could it happen to all the boys? That they'll be used and nothing more?

"Wow. Big F." Ben breaks the silence. "I-I mean… that really, er, that's really horrible, Lady Carter."

" _It's been difficult to deal with."_

"Do you want me to fight anyone?" I offer.

She chuckles at that. " _Not necessary, thank you. I have developed a good eye now as to who is using me and who is genuine."_ She faces Ben. " _I hope this doesn't happen to you and your fellow Selected. It is exhausting."_

After I translate for Ben, he beams. "Please don't worry about me, Lady Carter. I'll T-pose at anyone who tries anything like that."

"Tea pose?" I ask, head tilted.

Ben hesitates. "Er, never mind."

"So, Ben," Cami begins. "You were a historian prior to the Selection, right?"

"That's right. Well, sort of." Ben places down his sandwiches to speak without distraction. "I'm a research assistant at the University of Alberta. My professor is a historian. Dr Alex Cornell."

Hastily my hands go wild as I translate into sign language. Lilly nods politely along, then her eyes pop.

" _Oh, I have met Alex Cornell,"_ she signs. " _He generously offered his help in broadening our understanding of the social and cultural effects of the caste system's elimination."_

"Yeah, and by that you mean, he helped you get a grasp on all the memes?"

" _Exactly that,"_ Lilly replies, using one of her hand to cover her giggle. " _So you are his assistant? You must know so much about twenty-first century pop culture."_

"I can quote the entire MCU, ma'am."

"The what?" I ask.

This is apparently the wrong this to say, as Ben jerks his head towards me.

"You… don't know the Marvel Cinematic Universe?"

I shake my head. "Is it a bunch of movies?"

"A _bunch_ of—" Ben takes a deep breath. "It's only the greatest film series of all time."

Cami shakes her head. "Taken by the Princess Diaries, I'm afraid."

Roy gasps, then faces Ben. "Are you insinuating that this _Emseeyoo_ is better than _the Princess Diaries?_ In my household?"

"I— er—" Ben visibly sweats. "It's the greatest _superhero_ film series of all time?"

Roy sips his tea. "Better."

Cami and Lilly giggle hysterically.

"Sheesh, Your Highness," Ben says quietly to me. "If I'd have known you wouldn't even know what they were… I'd have asked you to watch them with me a lot sooner."

"You want to watch it with me?"

"Yes. If you want."

"I—"

 _Oh._

 _Is he asking me on a date?_

Cami and Lilly stifle giggles. Roy coughs discreetly over his tea.

"Okay," I agree. "Is… is it scary?"

"No, but if you get scared," he gives a half-smile, one that displays his cute dimples and makes him look irresistibly attractive, "you can always hold on to me."

My cheeks heat, and I decide not to respond in case I fall face-first in the chocolate cake.

"So, Mr Santiago. Ben, is it?" Before I can think about losing my mind in the tizzies, Roy leans forward conspiratorially. "Gail tells me that there is drama within the Selection. Is this true?"

Ben reaches for his glass of water and sips noisily. "I feel that is a loaded question, Your Majesty."

"You bet your butt it's a loaded question."

I glare at Roy. "There's nothing beyond the rivalries of the competition. Gosh, Roy."

"Do you have a rival, Ben?"

"I don't think so…?"

Roy doesn't press but makes the _I've got my eye on you_ gesture and I can't help but roll my eyes.

Soon all the plates are emptied and our stomachs filled, and the attendants come to clean the table and the crumbs that litter across my lap. Secretively Lilly gives Cami and me a flutter of her fingers – she wants our attention.

" _I do like him. Ben Santiago,"_ she signs. " _Do you, Camilla?"_

Cami smiles cryptically. " _He's very sweet. Easy to talk to. And funny."_

" _And handsome,"_ Lilly adds, eyes on me, _"isn't he, Gail?"_

A flush ripples up my cheeks, and I glance to my side to see him cracking a joke with Roy, and Roy laughing earnestly. Ben has such a natural, easy aura that being around him hasn't made me all that nervous, but now noticing the smooth lines of his jaw and the strong frame of his tall body and the gentle tremor of his deep voice threatens a lung collapse within me.

Lilly and Cami share a giggle, and I glare at them. " _Stop making it weird!"_

" _It's a Selection, Gail. It will always be strange."_ Lilly nods approvingly. " _And he is a keeper."_

In that moment, both Ben and Roy glance over. Roy must've caught the tail end of Lilly's signs as he smirks, but Ben glances between us. One wiry eyebrow rises on his forehead.

"What is it? What are you talking about?"

Roy pats him on the shoulder.

"Ah, you poor simple Selected. That conversation right there," he says cryptically, "is the true girl's afternoon."

* * *

The good time doesn't last. Soon Ben is dismissed, and the rest of us head to a conference room to discuss the rebel threat. All thoughts of delicious tea and fun laughs and secret signed conversations in front of unsuspecting hot boys leaves my head, displaced for a tension that wiggles its way through my bones. It's a stark change, but not unexpected. Now that the problem is in front of me, in the form of a letter written in a child's handwriting, I feel like that fear was always inside me, waiting for the moment I would hone on it, give it the attention it so desires.

Lilly delicately traces her fingers down the letter. Her eyes dart along, then her hands.

" _Do we know who the child is?"_ she asks me.

Roy shakes his head before I can answer. "No." He signs and speaks. "That was one of the first things I looked into. The principal had never even heard of a Hunter."

 _Hunter,_ I think. _Very funny, Voice._

"Do you think it is a real threat, Lilly?" asks Cami with a hopeful tone.

" _Absolutely,"_ Lilly confirms. " _This is the method of the Resurgence. Sneaky, but harmless displays of their power."_

"What do you know of the Resurgence?" I ask.

Lilly sits back. Ponders her signs. " _After the death of the Southern Rebel leader, I became an ambassador between the monarchy and the remnants of those who didn't disband after Roy's Selection. It was a chaotic time, but I managed to help many unsatisfied people. The Resurgence is relatively new; they did not exist even a couple of years ago. They formed from the ashes of the Southern Rebels – the same and yet not. Because of this, I wasn't able to form a connection with them. I have few contacts within the Resurgence. They are an enigma, even to me."_

She looks at Roy. " _We cannot approach the Resurgence as if they are the Southern Rebels. They are like an audience at a show; they catch your attention by booing you, rather than throwing tomatoes at the stage."_

" _But,"_ she signs solemnly, " _that could change at any moment."_

They're not violent now, but how much pushing can they take? What decision could cause the Voice to turn her back on her pacifist ways and cause her smitten followers to do the same?

Roy's fists clench. "So we can't take direct action against them? Against law-breakers?" He's so sharp to retort he forgets to sign, and hastily flings his hands.

Lilly frowns. " _They break the law, but they are not aggressive, and neither should we respond aggressively. In fact, we must not."_

"You and I both know that if rebels are not stopped, they will only make our lives a living hell."

" _Yes,"_ she agrees. " _But putting our foot down is not the answer here. We must not aggravate them, or we could risk civil unrest."_

Roy doesn't look happy at that, but lets out a grunt instead of adding to the conversation.

Cami takes the pause to say, "These co-ordinates lead to an abandoned swimming venue in Fennley."

"So we send a team in," Roy says; he glances sideways at Lilly, as if goading her to disagree.

Lilly takes a deep breath. " _The Voice is a mystery. Only the most elite members of her circle know her identity. However, if she's advocating for peace, then I believe the best course of action is for Gail to meet with her."_

Which is exactly what I said. Exactly what I want. To broker peace.

"I thought I made my opinion clear," Roy says, dangerously low, "that I am not putting Gail on the front line."

"It's my decision and I want to hear Aunt Lilly out," I counter. "You invited her here for as much."

Lilly signs before Roy can object. " _Like I said, the Southern Rebels and the Rebel Resurgence are similar and dissimilar, all at once. Their motives are the same: equality for all, an end to capitalism… but the Resurgence is cleverer, more efficient, less clumsy with their operations… they are aware of how far they can break the rules without worse repercussions from law enforcement. They don't want people risking themselves. They want more voices."_

It's a thinly-veiled way to say the Resurgence is, in almost every way, scarier. And I should find them scarier. I sink into the chair with the realisation.

"They want voices, but most especially, they want Gail," Roy clarifies. "There must be another route that doesn't involve taking her to the co-ordinates—"

"Again, I'm right here," I cut him off and face Lilly. "If you think going is the best course of action—"

"I didn't ask Lilly to come all this way to discuss how you'd get there. I asked her here to find out how we could _avoid_ it."

"It's clearly not avoidable."

Roy's eyes sharpen. "We send recon. Scout the area. A small team of specialists can be over there in hours to capture any Resurgence members—"

"For what? To get one member in interrogation when the rest of the Resurgence continues being a nuisance? All I have to do is hear them out." My words are careful as I try not to raise my voice. "That's it."

"I won't—"

"Roy," Cami says, firmly but not without a gentle tone. "As much as I hate to send Gail, she's the only one they'll talk to. If they won't even meet with Lilly, how would they react to a SWAT team?"

Lilly signs her agreement. " _If they'd wanted to do Gail any harm, they would have done so during that plane journey."_

Roy throws himself up and moves to the window. I think he'll explode, refuse, reject the idea and veto any argument against it, but all he does is stand there, staring outside as if the very clouds could provide answers.

"I don't like it."

"I know," I say, signing for Lilly as I stand. "But this might be our last chance. If we don't even give them our time, they're not going to waste any more of theirs at another attempt at peace."

Our goals should be aligned because that's all the Voice wants. Peace.

At least, supposedly.

"Fine." Roy turns back around but won't meet my eye. "But you're going with as many guards as we can spare."

"All right."

"I want them heavily armed. I want them with the best communication devices. I want them in contact with the palace at all times. And I don't want you to leave their sight whatsoever."

I'm not sure I can promise the last one.

"There might be a way we can get more information about the Voice," Cami suggests. Roy and I take our seats again as she explains. "It's not much, but a listening device will be incredibly useful in recording a sample of her voice. At least then we'll have something to go off."

"That's a good idea. I'll get Gail hooked up to something."

Lilly frowns. " _I don't think they will fall for that. The rebels put me in one, remember? They won't be fooled by their own tricks."_

Roy grunts. "It's worth a shot anyway."

The discussion diverts to logistics, plans, and strategies, everything that blows over my head. They want to hook me to listening devices and body cams and hidden armour beneath my clothes, to prepare for the worst scenarios where the rebels turn hostile or peace talks fail.

I don't have to be involved in this, not really. After all, my only task will be hearing them out.

And staying alive.

* * *

 **A/N:** 'Ello everyone! Plans are forming and Gail is once again thrust into the spotlight... but is it for the best? I hope you enjoyed the chapter!

Lilly returns! She was a prominent character in The Selection and the Spy, as she was, spoiler, one of the titular spies and a close runner up for winner. Big thanks to HikaruLeach/ PrincessLillyCarter (that username) for her. She'll be dipping in and out of the story as we go...

Just want to say, whenever I'm out and about I remember a meme and I think "damn, that would be perfect for Ben" but when I actually sit down to write him, I forget every single Internet in-joke in existence. I contribute at least a quarter of Know Your Meme's traffic when a Ben scene crops up. So if you have any top tier memes that would fit a memelord... [eyes emoji]

Lastly, if you happen to be a Pokémon fan as well as a Selection fan, I started a new Pokémon fanfic yesterday called The Lost Champion, and I'd be chuffed if you read it. It's on my stories page. :D

Thanks for reading, folks!

~ GWA

NTT: "Absolute trash tier pun work."


	26. Like Silver

With only two days left to go until the planned meet with the Voice, I am keeping totally calm, collected, and poised, as I always knew I would.

"Susanetta, stop! You're gonna' crash—!"

I slam chest-first into the wall and stagger back, falling onto my butt and shrilling as pain ricochets up my spine. The ice is a cold, hard demon when it wants to be.

Rose skates to me, offering a hand. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine." I take her hand and come to shaky skates. The ice is so not working with me today – did I forget to pay it respect when I stepped on this evening? "I'm a little distracted."

"I can see that." Even through her helmet, Rose's frown is pronounced. "Are you sure everything's okay? Do you want to talk about it?"

 _Oh, you know, just meeting the leader of the rebels the day after tomorrow! No big deal! I'm definitely coping okay!_

I think it so strongly if she had telepathy my secret would be out.

"Watch where you're going, Vivas!" Bellona calls. The line of my waiting teammates behind her rustles. "Lamb, back into position. Let's continue the drills sensibly, please."

Chastened, I skate to the back of the line. Bellona doesn't even look my way, but Zelda grimaces a clear _the hell was that?_ Not that she should be surprised; I've been off my game all day, and me missing a third of my passes and crashing into the sides is the least of it.

I can't talk to anyone about it. Zelda knows the bare minimum details at Durante's request and I don't want her to worry, and leaving her out it's just Roy, Cami, Lilly, Durante, Naomi and a handful of guards that know. None of them I feel comfortable talking to. Not really.

"So much hate." Janet mooches to the back of the line to join me. "You trying to injure yourself?"

"I promise I'm not." If I did, would I get out of the meeting on Tuesday?

"Good. I would kick your ass if you were. It's like you're self-destructing your chances to play in the tournament."

"What tournament?"

"The upcoming regionals?" Janet chuckles. "Girl, you been living under a rock?"

"Or a chunk of ice?" Beverly comes around behind me with a sympathetic smile. "No offence meant. I saw the pun and I took it."

"Absolute trash tier pun work."

"You're so mean, Janet."

"I prefer to think of it as _bluntly honest,"_ Janet remarks.

Beverly shakes her head with a laugh and then says to me, "All the women's second teams in the Angeles area play against one another in a regional tournament. For fun."

"Not for fun. To the death!" Janet says, stamping her skates against the ice like a haiku dance. "We have to wreck our competition!"

"Gently," says Beverly.

"I don't remember Bellona announcing it," I say.

"She hasn't, but we all know it's coming," says Janet, jamming a thumb towards our manager. "I'd be surprised if she didn't end today's sesh with a motivational speech about it."

At the end of practice, the changing rooms are explosive with discussion of the drills today. Naturally I'm too tired to talk much and I take a towel to my forehead. It comes away oily. Then I replace my glasses and gather my stuff to head to the showers.

A shadow catches my eye. I turn at the shower room door to see Bellona blocking the exit, waving at me to stop. Conversation dies instantly.

"Apologies for the interruption. Before everyone leaves for the day, I have something short to announce to you."

Behind me, Janet nudges Beverly and wiggles her eyebrows. Is she psychic?

"As you may know, the Angeles Regionals are upon us. For the first teams of both men and women of the All-Stars, winning the regionals is the next step in to the national championship leagues. For our second team here, this is merely a casual tournament meant only to prove the skill of each team's management and the enthusiasm of local players."

She places heavy emphasis on the last part. _The enthusiasm of local players._ Because, of course, if what Felice said is true, Glendale Rink is under pressure to stay open. We have to show the bigwigs we're enthusiastic or risk the rink being shut down forever.

It doesn't need to be said that winning, for us, will mean big bucks for the team.

"As if it wasn't obvious enough, we will be competing in this tournament," Bellona declares to a rustle of excitement. "So, ladies, over the next couple of months I expect your best play. I have encouraged the Angeles Regionals organisers to hold our matches here as many times as we can squeeze in; however that is not always possible, as it is for our first match, so prepare to travel around Angeles when necessary."

My heart drops. As if _I_ can leave the palace for a few days and get away with it! I gnaw at my lip; I want to compete, I do, but what sort of excuse will I have to cobble to avoid suspicion?

"I will give you plenty of warning when matches will take place, and I intend to rotate players in and out to fit required skillsets for each team." Her gaze fixes on me oddly; she definitely noticed my terrible play today. "Our first match, as tradition dictates, will be against the Franciscan Ferrets in San Francisco in two weeks. Everyone is required to attend this game whether I have you play or not, so you can accustom to the tournament atmosphere. They have been, historically, our biggest rivals in Angeles, so though winning isn't entirely necessary, it would be nice to wipe the smirk of Marco de Lucas' face for once."

Chuckles bubble. Marco de Lucas is, I can only guess, the manager for the Franciscan Ferrets.

Bellona makes one last round of eyeballing before nodding. "I shall send more details in an email tomorrow. Otherwise, enjoy your evenings."

She leaves. From behind her, Zelda crawls inside and makes a beeline for me.

"Hey, we—"

"Hah!" Janet slaps me on the back and ruffles the blonde locks of Zelda's hair. "What I tell you? Regional tournament, here we come!" Then she leers at me. "So you better up your game. I will not tolerate anyone exploding their own chances to play, got it?"

"I-I got it."

"Sheesh, if you don't half scare her to death first." Zelda takes my arm and drags me away, whispering, "We gotta' talk desperately about this tournament, Gail. I'll wait for you in the car."

After my shower and saying goodbyes to everyone, I head to her car, noticing the way Zelda's hand twitches on the wheel. The door slams and the engine revs, and we're leaving just as Zelda starts to talk.

"Bellona requested I accompany her to all the tournament matches."

Oh. Oh dear.

"Listen, the palace guards? They'll be okay us leaving every other evening and coming back after a few hours. But us leaving for _days_ to travel to some other part of the province? We'll get roasted alive, and that's before Durante gets involved." She swings the wheel aggressively at intersections. "What are we gonna' do?"

"Say we can't afford it?"

"Tried that. Everything's covered by travel expenses. Hotel, coaches."

I sit back and pull off my wig. It's uncomfortable to wear it wet, let alone when my real hair beneath is wet, and the strands fall thickly down my neck. Even though I do care about playing, the regionals are the least of my worries right now, and having to entertain Zelda's panic about it really doesn't seem that important in the long run.

She raps on wheel's leather. "San Francisco isn't even that far. What about when we go to Fresno? Sacramento? That'll take even longer to get there."

"I don't know to be honest."

"Unless we can make our own way there? To San Fran? Maybe under the guise of a group date or something?"

"With you there?"

"Pffft. Claim best friend benefits."

I flap my wig, hoping to air it out. It's an idea, I guess. We've got a few days to mull it over. "We'll think of something."

"I like how you say _we_ when usually it's just _me."_

"You're the planner, I'm the doer."

"I take great offence to that, as a person who does things all the time. You never plan. You should do it for once."

"I plan things all the time."

"Oh yeah? Like my sixteenth birthday party with the broken stereo, the decorations made out of leftover pink napkins, and the cake that was too hot to eat because you literally took it out of the oven three minutes before I blew out the candles?"

"… But you had fun, right?"

I'm cheered up immensely as we head back home. Even the sneak across the palace grounds and the walk through the hidden passages doesn't seem so dark and dismal. I make the pain-staking climb back to my room, cool and still, and I roll inside with a gentle _oof,_ glad I've already showered so I can go straight to sleep.

Except Aderyn is there.

She sits motionless at my vanity table, staring idly at the mirror. Her cutting gaze fixes on me in the reflection as I right myself.

"So that's how you've been escaping recently."

My heart could explode right then and there. Forget trying to get out the palace for a couple of days. Aderyn has busted me after a couple of hours.

She twists in the chair and stands. "Do you know how—"

"I know, I know. I remember your speech from last time you caught me sneaking out."

"That was when you rolled through the ground floor window into Zelda's bedroom. How did you get in?" Then she gasps. "Oh no. You _climbed the walls?"_

"Ssssh!" I hiss, waving my hands madly. If Naomi overhears I might as well engrave my own headstone. "Please, Aderyn. I know how dangerous it is and I know what I'm doing. I'm being very safe about it."

"What about climbing the outer wall of the palace is _safe_ —?" She startles. "Wait a moment. Are those _contact lenses?"_

Hastily I blink my eyes and look away, cursing the bright lights of the spots in my ceiling.

"Why are you sneaking out? Tell me this instant."

"You're not my mother," I snap.

"No, I'm not. Would you like me to retrieve her?"

"No!" I shrill. "No, please don't."

"Then tell me what's going on." Her eyes narrow. "This wasn't another impromptu date to In-N-Out again, was it?"

"I'm not telling you."

Her shoulders rise. Suddenly her angry demeanour disappears. "You've been so distant lately, Gail. I thought it was because you were busy, but I'm starting to think it has something to do with all these late-night excursions."

"I promise, I'm okay."

"I've been worried."

"I'm sorry. I just… I've just been stressed because of the Selection, is all. I have so many people to please and I don't know how to do it. Escaping for a while helps, and I'm always careful when I sneak out. See?" I point to my green eyes. "Even have a disguise."

I don't realise until the words have left my mouth how true they are.

Aderyn tilts her head. A single lock of blonde falls from her bun, and she pets the side of my bed. "Sit." I do, and she holds onto my shoulders. "You know, a few years ago, I was dating this person—"

"Is this the same man that woke up in Argentina?"

"No, this was a woman—"

"Then the girlfriend that was really mean—?"

"Different from her."

I frown. "How do you have so many stories?"

She shrugs. "I must collect them like trophies. But you're digressing! My own ex-girlfriend was cold and aloof to me for what felt like the longest time, and it culminated in physical sickness that manifested in a month-long cold."

I frown. "I'm not feeling ill, Aderyn."

"That's not the point. It's that we were in a relationship but wouldn't share her burdens with me. And Gail, you know you can talk to me, right? I'm your confidant as well as your lady's maid. I may threaten to tell someone about whatever you do, but that's only because I worry about your safety. If you want me to stay quiet about your escapades, I will, but I'm always terrified that I'll let you go one night and you won't come back."

"I can take care of myself."

"I know. You're tough, but I still worry. And I don't want to let the stresses get you down." She gives me a little shake. "But goodness, do you really have to climb up the palace wall? Isn't there a safer way?"

"It's the only way I can leave," I protest, deciding it better not to involve Max. "It's the only way Naomi or any of my bodyguards don't get up in my face."

"I see." She scratches her chin. "Next time, come get me and we can go to the tailor's workshop on the ground floor. I'll pretend to measure you for a dress. We can ditch Naomi there; it's connected to the loading bay."

That sure is a lot less life-risking than climbing a wall. "That would be great."

"On one condition," she says. "You take me wherever you go."

I stand sharply. "No! No, I can't do that."

"Why not? Are you doing something illegal?"

"N-No, but…" To bring her into the hockey world? It's too risky. "No. I just can't. It's… it's a big secret."

"I'm a palace servant, Your Highness," she says with teasing. "I hear and keep many secrets."

"Yes, but…" Not only does this jeopardise me, but Zelda, too. "I'm sorry. I just can't."

Aderyn takes a moment to process. In the end, a long sigh brushes from her lips. It fills me with despair.

"All right. I can't force you." She heads for my door. "I can take you to the tailor's workshop regardless if I go. It's much safer." She stands and moves towards the door, pausing as her hand reaches for the knob. "I'm here whenever you need me, okay?"

Then leaves as quietly as she appeared, and I feel guilt eat away at my soul even more.

* * *

After etiquette class and lunch the next day, I'm too tense to do anything productive.

 _Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow._

Tomorrow, I meet the rebels in Fennley. Tomorrow, everything could change. I take a deep breath. No, as wound up as I am, I know being productive is exactly what I need. It'll keep my mind off things, keep me grounded.

So I strike myself a deal – I'll have a homework date. Too tense as I am to go on a normal date or do homework for class, at least this way I can do both. Two birds, one stone. I force myself to change into something more suitable – a plain baby-blue dress that sweeps at my knees – and head down to the Men's Parlour.

I'm halfway there to ask an undecided someone (definitely not Sheng) on such a date when a figure mutely passes me around the corner. Soren Reinhart.

Even though I yelp, he barely raises his eyes. "Your Highness."

"Oh, Soren! I didn't hear you coming!"

No wonder he and Max are so similar: both dark and broody, but whilst Max basks in black, black and only black, Soren's dark suit is at least filtered with a wine-red button-up and accents on the blazer. And of course, his platinum-blond hair.

He glances down at his feet. "Rug."

"A rug, right." With his hands shoved in his pockets, and a backpack thrown lazily over one shoulder, it's hard to suss what he's doing. "The Men's Parlour is the opposite way."

"I'm not going to the Men's Parlour."

"… Where are you going?"

"The Amendment wing. The history classroom."

Ah, the essay, the one he's forced to redo when a lost bet with Kingsley landed him more homework. Suddenly thinking this a great way to, one: date, two: do homework, and three: impress JJ with my own essay skills and knock three birds with one stone, I loop my arm through Soren's.

"I'll join you! I need to do that essay too."

His arm tenses; beneath the blazer and shirt there is muscle that cords through his flesh, but he relaxes too quickly for me to savour the feeling.

"Okay."

 _Okay? Just okay?_ I glance sidelong at his face. Still not a wink of emotion – his eyes are alert but not focused, and his mouth rests in a neutral frown. It's like he was born without facial expressions. I think for a moment that I've done something wrong, but he leads us towards the Amendment wing without fanfare. Without anything, really. My attempts at conversation go like this:

"So, how far have you got through the essay?"

"Base draft."

"… How many words?"

"About two thousand."

"Wow! That's a lot."

"Yeah."

In the end I grimace and shut up. Soren really isn't much a talker, and I wonder how far that will get him through the competition.

JJ and, to my astonishment, Kingsley wait outside of the classroom as normal. JJ has two textbooks in hand and bops his head in greeting.

"Your Highness, you've decided to join us today!"

"Your Highness," Kingsley also greets, but I definitely notice the stiffness as he addresses Soren with his eyes. "I didn't know you were coming today. I would have escorted you personally."

"That's okay. I wasn't really planning to come, but I bumped into Soren in the hallway."

"How fortuitous," says Kingsley, eye twitching.

"Yep!"

I glance at Soren. That's definitely a teeny, _tiny_ hint of a smile there, and I can't deny there isn't something hilarious about their rivalry. Is this what it's like to be in a love triangle in all of my favourite cheesy YA novels?

JJ opens the door for us and waits at the front of the classroom for us to take our seats. Except neither Kingsley nor Soren move, and being attached to Soren that I am, I don't move either.

JJ's gaze darts between them with an amused smile. "I only brought two textbooks. One of you will have to share with Her Highness."

"I will gladly do it," Kingsley offers, holding out a hand.

"You've only written five hundred words, Kingsley," Soren says, voice level. "I'm ahead. I can spare time to help Her Highness with her own essay."

"Yes, that's a good idea." JJ foists a textbook into my hands. "I would remind you to keep chit-chat to a minimum, but it is you I'm talking to, Mr Reinhart."

"I— yes. This is probably a good idea. Her Highness and I wouldn't be able to stop talking, we work so _well_ together." And with that, Kingsley rolls around and swaggers to the back of the classroom.

Oh, that was definitely a jab. It's almost imperceptible, but Soren's brow furrows. Does that actually sting?

"You two can be here." JJ points to the desk a row away from the front. "Less ogling, more studying, Your Highness. Remember that."

"I-I won't be _ogling_ Soren," I protest.

"I didn't say you'd be ogling _him_ , but I see where your mind is."

Hmph. Touché.

Soren, as usual, has no comment, even to the indirect compliment, and settles himself in the chair to unpack his various pencils, pens, highlighters and a spare notepad from his bag. I sit next to him and open the textbook, because I didn't bring a single thing and I want to busy my hands.

"Do you…" his voice injects into the air so suddenly I have to look up and make sure he's actually speaking, "do you want to borrow a pen and paper?"

"I— oh, yes. Please. I mean, I probably won't give the paper back, so it's not really borrowing…"

He rips me a sheet. "You can have that to keep then." He also gives a pretty fountain pen, and the nib is so smooth across the page it's like spreading hot butter.

Like clockwork, Soren finds the right page of the textbook and starts to make notes. _Southern Rebel History_ reads the chapter title in bold letters. What follows is paragraphs and paragraphs of thick, chunky text that makes my eyes water, but JJ criticised my first essay for lack of argument for their side, so I guess I have to start reading it. Even if I don't want to.

 _Maybe this will prepare me for tomorrow._

My hearts starts to thunder all over again. Doing an essay that argues partly _for_ rebels the day before I visit said rebels? Not my wisest move. I swallow my apprehension and read.

 _The origin of the Southern Rebels is muddied by different sources, but many believe they began when a disenchanted group of protestors gathered in an underground bar in Honduragua, angered by the monarchy's imposed caste system…_

I squeeze my eyes shut.

"Your Highness?"

Soren is staring at me with those hollow, icy eyes. _No_ , I notice, as I take in the vision of them. _They're a light green._

"I'm fine."

He swallows audibly. "Are you… having trouble?"

Am I? I guess this is kind of hard for me. "I think so."

To my surprise, he smiles. It's both a smirk and something more genuine, and therefore neither. "You either are or you aren't."

"Then I am. It's just… difficult to have to give them an opinion."

He considers my words for a moment. "Don't think of it like that. You are impartial, neither for nor against either side. All you are doing is reporting the facts, and the relevance of those facts to your argument." He taps his pen to the page. "The conclusion is the only place where you can input your personal opinion. Reserve your feelings for then."

For a second I'm too stunned to react. "Wow, you _can_ talk a lot."

"When I need to."

"Oh, so you _need_ to help me, do you?"

"… Did you not want help…?"

"I'm teasing." I grin.

Soren stares at me. I think that's supposed to be confusion, but oh heck, does it look like literally every other expression he has. He makes a non-committal grunt and continues note-taking, and I do the same, though I watch him in my peripheral vision, tracing his profile with my eyes.

 _Quite a handsome profile it is._ For all his almost unhealthy pallor, Soren doesn't have a bad-looking face. My cheeks heat and I stare at my page. _How am I going to eventually choose a winner when all my Selected are so freakin' hot?_

I clear my thoughts of sordidness and focus on the textbook. Totally impartial. I take some notes and write some important dates. Time seems to pass at snail's pace, and though the hour chimes on the clock above the whiteboard, I don't have much of an essay to show for it. A jumble of notes and bullet points, but no real substance.

Huffing quietly to myself, I watch Soren. His handwriting is a chicken scratch scribble, but somehow it's like he's added another thousand words. The minimum was a thousand and yet he's going all out.

"Soren, how many words was your original essay?"

"A thousand words exactly."

"You're writing so much more now."

"Yes," he says, "because Kingsley isn't copying me."

 _Oh._ At my understanding, another teensy-weensy smile edges the corner of his lips. _Clever._

He clears his throat. "Do you want me to read it and tell you what I think?"

"Yes, please."

I know I have his full attention when he turns to scrutinise my notes. Emotions flicker and peter like a broken light bulb, in rapid succession and without me being able to fixate on any of it before it's gone, displaced for something else. _He's trying,_ I think. _Making an effort to get to know me._ My spine tingles; Kingsley is still there, watching us from the back of the classroom. _Is he doing it to annoy Kingsley or is he doing it to prove to Kingsley that we can get along, too?_

Say what I will about Kingsley irritating Soren, it seems like it's actually working.

"There's… no flow," he says eventually.

"No flow? What do you mean?"

"Your points are not cohesive. You're just stating something, then something else, then something else. There's no train of thought to follow."

"Oh…" I guess it's still notes, but Soren's delivery is blunt and unwavering and makes me sadder than I should feel about an essay. "Okay."

"But… it's not bad. Really."

"Now I'm convinced."

"You're redoing this because you needed additional perspective about the rebels, right?" He points to a paragraph. "You have it. There. That's… good."

"… You _really_ think so?"

A single nod. Somehow it makes me feel accomplished. Sure, the paragraph in favour of the rebels is small and my skin crawls at the thought of it, but it's a perspective I'm willing to give them here, and I'm glad it balances the counterpoints of my argument enough that Soren thinks it's good.

"Chit-chat," JJ sings.

Soren promptly returns to his own page, and so do I.

It's only a slight comfort for what I have in store, but it's a comfort nonetheless.

* * *

It's raining when the plane touches down in Fennley.

There's a word in literature when the weather reflects the mood of a scene. Pathetic fallacy, they call it. Right now I am feeling both pathetic and that this is one, big fallacy, so as the rain continues to chuck against us even as we move into the car convoys, I can only hope this isn't some ominous sign for what's to come.

"Nearly at the co-ordinates," Durante barks into his walkie-talkie. "Stay sharp, everyone."

Surrounded by guards, it's hard to keep calm, so I force myself to stare through the window again. Rain in Fennley is unusual, being an arid desert province, and besides the mist obscuring a perfect view, I can see far down the acres of dry land into nothingness. There's hardly anything here. A few shrubs and that's it.

No wonder the rebels chose this location.

Opposite me, Naomi is typing rapidly on a secure briefcase with a laptop inside. She catches me staring.

"It's not too late. We can turn around."

"We're doing this," I say, with more confidence than I feel. "I have to meet with them and stop them before there's chaos."

"You're the boss here." She grimaces. "I hope this meeting actually solves things."

 _Me too._

The convoy rolls to stop in a small, Podunk town not too far from the local landing strip. It seems to be compromised of only a few streets, a smattering of buildings, and a giant water tower that if it was sunny could create a shadow right across the main street. Everything seems abandoned, let alone the swimming venue, which seems to be the only source of recreation here. And now they don't even have that.

"Hartsville, Fennley." Durante offers Naomi an umbrella. "You know the drill."

Naomi gives one nod and exits the vehicle. Durante faces me and offers a gentle smile.

"We're here whenever you need us. You have your device?"

My hand goes to one pocket of my leggings. There's a small device that needs only a button press to alert the team that I need help. That is, it's what it's supposed to look like. It's actually a decoy for the real thing. The listening devices tingle in my ears, two pearls that appear innocent to most, but are the highest-tech recorders we could procure.

(And they look really cute, too.)

"Yes."

Durante inspects quickly and nods. "Stay vigilant, Your Highness, but most importantly stay _safe,_ okay? If you smell even the slightest whiff of trouble, call."

"I will."

I open the door, stepping out beneath Naomi's open umbrella. The smell of the downpour instantly overwhelms me, but doesn't quite hide that dusty taste of rural Illéa, and I take a moment to adjust and pull my thick coat tightly.

"Your Highness." One of the guards approaches, rain spitting against his head. "The town… it's entirely abandoned."

"What?"

Naomi looks at him in alarm. "No. There's a small population here—"

"That's right, but… it's like nobody's in. There's no one manning the gas station. I knocked on a few doors and no one answered."

My fear spikes. Did the Resurgence capture everyone here? Or are they just hiding?

"Nothing changes," I say with a rush. "We go to the co-ordinates as planned."

No one looks pleased. Naomi relays the information to Durante in the vehicle, who will in turn relay it back to the palace and Roy. It wasn't like we were relying on the townspeople's help or anything, but knowing that they were there was comfort enough. Now it's eerie. We are truly alone.

I am truly alone.

The swimming pool is boarded up crudely with planks of wood, darkened by rainwater. The doors swing open with no protest, and I shake off the wet but not the cold, which seeps through the linoleum and cracks in the walls like a snake in the grass. The foyer is small and has no more than a small desk.

A lady waits, most of her face obscured by a thin scarf. The Second. I recognise her instantly; the tall build, the sharp, cutting eyes, the muscled body swathed in black and leather. Time away has allowed me to make comparisons to Felice – a hulking, intimidating figure that would never go down without a fight, but whereas Felice wore her emotions on her sleeve, the Second hides behind a thin veneer of politeness. It turns my stomach.

"Your Highness. We have been expecting you." She raises her arms. "I hope you won't object to a search, for the safety of our members. Your contingent will stay put, of course."

Naomi grips her gun, but I hold out a hand. "I don't object."

I stand forwards as rebels pour from the side rooms. Four or five, dressed in entirely black and leather, scarves hiding their faces. A few approach and pat me down, searching through my pockets. My eyes widen as they tug out the device.

"No!" I feign. I'm a pretty good actress so it sounds genuine.

"And what is that?" the Second asks.

"It's nothing— it's none of your business."

She pauses, eyes narrowing. Then she comes forward, and I can smell old leather and sweat on her person before she tosses the button away and reaches forward… and brushes my hair behind my ears.

"A nice attempt to hide the real thing. I'm sure your Captain of the Guard thought of that. Standard protocol for you political types. We've even used the earring trick in the past, I'm sure you're aware. Unfortunately, we will only be allowing one ear to listen today, and that is yours, Highness." She stands back. "Remove them."

My chest constricts. The command is for me. It was my only safety net, and she taunts me by asking me to remove it myself.

 _They won't kill you,_ I remember. _Otherwise they would've done it already. They need you, Gail._

It doesn't comfort me much. Reluctantly, I unclick the earrings and place them in the hands of a waiting rebel. Now my heart is in my throat, threatening to unspool whatever courage came packaged in those pearls.

"What have you done to the town?"

"Persuaded them to leave for a few days, so there will be no unexpected interruptions." She nudges her head. "The Voice will join us shortly. Come along. Alone."

The Second turns and paces through double doors to the pool area. I give one last look of longing Naomi's way.

"Wait," Naomi calls. "Your Highness—"

"I'm fine," I say. But it's an automatic response.

I follow the Second.

The swimming pool is not nearly as vast as I expect it to be, definitely not on the same level as the new Daugherty Building of Los Angeles Elementary School. The pool itself is half the size and empty, leaving a hollow basin nicked with marks and moss. The only doors lead to changing rooms, showers and a fire exit at the back.

In the pool is a handful of rebels. Their no-gun policy doesn't help to calm nerves. Right in the centre of the group is an erected dark-green screen and an empty fold-out chair, for where I am supposed to sit. The Voice, no doubt, will be on the other side. The Second marches down the steps into the pool and I follow, and take a seat in the chair.

My ears feel bare and naked without the earrings. I wrestle with my earlobe like the jewellery will magically reappear. Nothing will be recorded. We've lost another chance at identifying anyone here.

 _Not yet._ I turn my body to the Second, who is a distance away, arms folded across her broad chest.

"Why do you follow the Voice?"

Her dark eyes dart to me. "Because I want to."

To be honest, I thought she would tell be to shut up, so I consider this a massive win already. "Like, you like her policies? Or you like that she's advocating for change?"

"I don't have to explain my reasoning to you."

"If anything, I'm the person you should explain to the most. I am the princess, after all."

Her toes wrinkle in her boots. "I believe her methods are the fastest way to make change. She goes directly to the source of our problems."

My face burns. "You could talk to my brother or Prime Minister Ahmed, you know."

"And why? Their heads are so far lodged up their asses that they couldn't see the wood for the trees. You, however," she leans down so her eyes are level with mine. "We can work with you."

"You can't _work_ with me. I'm not putty."

"On the contrary, Your Highness, you have been malleable from the very beginning. Don't think we didn't notice the fortunate timing of your Selection and your recent attempts to involve yourself in the political sphere. You have been made into an opportunity because you distract the adoring people, but you are nothing but naïve." She pulls the scarf higher so the tips of her feral grin don't show. "The naïve princess who is in over her head."

Footsteps clack loudly on tile. I turn swiftly as I fight to stop the tears welling on my eyes, to stop my breath from puffing in short, sharp raps.

 _The naïve princess._

Is that really all I am?

The chair on the other side groans with new weight.

"Your Highness."

The Voice is my real target and the Second is only winding me up, I know it, but it hurts all the same, right to my core. They're targeting me because I'm the weak link. Pretty but pliable, like silver. My reasons for starting the Selection now are even less serious than a potential rebel uprising – I started it to spite a boy I liked. That only proves her point.

"Hello, Voice," I force out the words without a waver.

"I hope my Second is not being too hard on you. After all, potential allies are always treated with utmost respect."

That same, impossibly monotonous voice, devoid of any love or care. Business as usual, it says. All I am is a means to an end.

"Yes." I decide to move on before tears fall. "You summoned me here to talk, so let's talk."

"Indeed. I assume you have had time to think upon my reasonable requests?"

"Reasonable," I scoff. "An alliance with rebels is not _reasonable."_

"Perhaps not to you, but think of the many who would benefit."

"You and your rebels, you mean."

She ponders for a moment. "You would not be here if you did not believe an alliance would benefit the entire population of Illéa, Your Highness."

Roy told me to outright refuse any ideas of an alliance with the Resurgence. Yet here I am, unable to completely veto the idea. The words are stuck on my tongue, there but unmoveable.

If I reject the offer now, what's to say they won't continue causing trouble across the country? What's to say their little acts of rebellion won't get much worse? Turn violent? Cause upheaval everywhere they touch?

What if it ultimately leads to our demise?

I swallow the words. I can't say them. Not yet.

"I haven't come to agree to anything. I've come… I've come to hear you out."

"I see. I admit I'm disappointed. I would've thought your mind made up."

"Well, you thought wrong." I withhold an embarrassed grimace at my terrible comeback. "You cannot scare me into making a decision that will have huge repercussions for me and my family. So I want to hear more about what you plan to do and how you plan to do it."

"It's rather simple." I hear it then, a taste of emotion. _Frustration?_ "You listen to our requests and act upon them."

"I am not—"

"A member of government, no. But you are close to them."

 _Puppet._ "What sort of requests?"

The Voice must motion something, as the Second tromps around the screen and returns shortly with a small, busy stack of papers. _Proposed Changes to Illéan Infrastructure_ it says in bold at the top.

"These are some of them, in proposal form. Obviously the details will need further fleshing out, but the main premise of each of our ideas is there."

I flick through. _Larger taxes to the rich. More accessible food banks. Job centre openings across the country. Apprenticeships. Scholarship funding._ The list goes on and on and doesn't touch on just one topic, but every aspect of life that I can think of. There's even ways to deal with the rampant corruption in capitalist companies, university selection programmes and prison systems.

"This— this is a lot."

"There is a lot that needs done," the Voice replies simply.

My head swims as I read. _This is too much to ask._ Far too much. There's no way I can even think about giving this to anyone expecting them to take it happily, let alone Roy or Prime Minister Ahmed.

"So," the Voice begins again, "will you join us?"

"H-Hold on," I squeak, losing my nerve, "you can't just hand this to me and expect me to immediately agree—"

"The terms are fair, Your Highness. You can read them for yourself."

"I will need time to read everything and _think,"_ I insist. "I need time to review everything and consider my options."

"How long will you need?"

"As long as it takes."

"That's not good enough. Your people did not protest for you to dally."

" _Your_ people bullied me into this meeting by creating mass hysteria across the country! You raid supplies and tamper with electrics! Y-You smoke-bombed a parade! A pride parade, when my nine-year-old brother was there!" Now the tears fall hot and fast. "If you really believed in fairness you would have left him out of your agenda!"

Silence. My fists are so tight the paper crunches. I force myself to sit back, release, even though the floodgates are open and I can't stop tears from rolling down my cheeks.

Then, a quiet, "I apologise."

It's the last thing I expect her to say.

"You… you what?"

"I apologise. Truthfully we were not expecting Prince Taeyang to be there. An event of that size and scale, it seemed obvious he would not be in attendance. I apologise for harming him, physically or mentally. He is a strong boy, and I know he will recover quickly."

I'm too shocked to toss her apology away. Not from the fact that she said sorry at all, but that it went against her expectations.

 _We were not expecting Prince Taeyang to be there._

Why would she even have expectations? Does… does she have a source within the palace?

After wiping my tears, I stand, papers in hand. "Keep your apologies for someone who believes them. I will review your requests and contact you."

"You will review them by showing them to the Prime Minister herself."

I jerk my head back. "I can't—"

"You can, and you shall, Princess Gail. I imagine His Majesty is far less open to any negotiations with us, but Prime Minister Ahmed is not such a lost cause. It wouldn't be so farfetched to make a visit to Washington D.C., you being so politically engaged, and all."

If Ahmed can just read them, deliberate the proposals, then the chaos can stop – no more rebel interference or protests or nuisances. It'll be a moment long enough to think about our next moves. I don't know how I'll get it to her, how I'll worm my way through a thousand security walls to offer this heretical thing for her approval, but I have to try. Because if I succeed, the government can take over and I can go back to my normal life. Back to Gail. Though I don't think I'll ever be the same Gail again.

"I-I will try my best," I say, hoping that will be good enough.

The Voice pauses. I can almost see her on the other side of the divider, smiling to herself as she wins the evening. As she wins my reluctant allegiance.

"Very well. And try your best you must, Your Highness," she says airily. "For you know we will accept nothing less."

* * *

 **A/N:** Merry Christmas and happy holidays! Shame Gail is having a less merry and happy time, but alas... things are happening in the world of the Resurgence...

Quite a long chapter and I hope it satisfies since this is a lil' late, lol. What did you think of the upcoming tournament? Being busted by Aderyn? Gail and Soren? And of course, the document of rebel demands...?

Thanks for reading, folks!

~ GWA

NTT: "Yamato just thinks he's better than everyone else."


	27. Team Yamato, feat Avian

The letters wait on my desk.

To avoid suspicion, I flew back to Angeles empty-handed and with nothing but frustration to give to Durante, Naomi and the rest of the guards. A wasted opportunity, where negotiations broke down as easily as dry pasta. Naturally the Voice thought of a way to send her change proposals to me via a more discreet method.

"Well? What happened?" Roy asked the moment I returned to the palace. "They destroyed your earrings so we weren't able to record any audio."

I shrugged. "More propaganda. More attempts to win my over. More threats. I think we're trying to understand each other, but we go from the wrong angle every time."

"So?"

"So… I guess I'll have to think more about it."

He scoffed. "They didn't convince you to their side, did they, Gail?"

"Of course not."

Not yet.

After the debrief with Roy and Durante, I return to my room. There my mail waits, a neat stack of open envelopes. Palace secretaries check everything that comes through; Roy's idea. I rifle through until I come to one, the paper quality thin and brittle. Recyclable, easy to dispose of.

 _Dear Your Highness,_

 _You are our favourite royal. You are poised, graceful, and so beautiful. Please continue to be so._

 _Kindest regards,_

 _Eve T. Choi_

I move from my desk to the heater and hold the paper close. Like magic, the writing on the back of the letter reveals itself. A URL. I move to my bed, glancing at the door to make sure it's shut, and open my laptop, typing the address onto the search bar. Up pops a lone page, bare of any flourishes, with a single download link.

Just to be safe, I run my virus software through it, but it finds nothing. Only the five-page brief in electronic form, and I churn it through to the small printer beneath my desk until the paper is warm in my hands.

 _Proposed Changes to Illéan Infrastructure._ I read the document in full, but it's much the same as the version I read in Fennley: a number of policy changes to improve quality of life for all citizens. The thing is, I can't even bring myself to hate the proposals, to feel the Voice twisting my priorities with every syllable on the page, because all of it puts the people first. It's all morally righteous. What's bad about reducing student debt or increasing benefits for the unemployed? Nothing. Not from the first word to the last.

But my stomach still clenches for entirely selfish reasons. This is the beginning of an alliance with the Rebel Resurgence. Okay, all I've done is read some paperwork, but even that feels like a fundamental betrayal. To the country, to my family, and most especially to Roy. If he knew what I held in my hands… if he knew I lied to him…

I shoo the thought. I don't have to think about what he'd do if he found out, because he won't. I'll make sure of it.

More pressingly, how am I going to get this to Prime Minister Wafiya Ahmed, who has been a family friend since the government's inception? Who would never want to bow to rebels no matter the cost, same as Roy?

 _Think, Gail, think._ If I'm really going to do this, then I'll need a plan, even though I'm no good with plans. Ahmed lives in on the other side of the country, in Allens, and she doesn't often come over, either, so somehow I'll have to go to her.

 _1600 New Pennsylvania Avenue._

My heart pops in my chest. Wasn't Cami saying something about excursions for politics class?

A knock peals at the door. I shove the papers under my mattress for safekeeping, then open. One of Aderyn's hands is balancing a silver tray laden with freshly-baked beignets and pots for dipping. Chocolate and caramel and jam.

Her other hand is occupied with Tay's, looking up at me with bright, bouncy eyes. It's good to see the parade isn't getting him down anymore.

"We heard you had a hard time in Fennley," Aderyn says, "meeting some representatives from the province."

"So I baked you some beignets!" Tay bobs on the balls of his feet. "This is my eighth batch! Omma says I'm getting good at making them but she doesn't want any more and all the guards are full so I want you to try these, Gail!"

The surprise is so lovely I nearly squee. I can't forget about my task ahead, but I can push it to one side so I can give Tay my full attention. I usher them inside and make space on my desk for the tray.

"That's so kind. Thank you, scamp."

They're greasy with oil, hot to the touch, but they melt on my tongue and disperse the last doubts with sweet sugar. Even Aderyn _aahs_ at the taste.

"And you are okay?" she asks me between bites. "You seem very… wound up."

"Meeting political figures will make anyone wound up," I say.

"True, but this is… this is like you've seen true dark."

Maybe I have. The Resurgence is the abyss that I'm staring into, and it's reaching out, coaxing me to let go of my wills and fall blindly into space. But I can't turn away now. The two sides are warring, and all it's doing is churning dust in its wake.

If my idea catches on, I might be able to stop it all.

"I'm fine," I say.

But I don't truly mean it.

* * *

"Now," Cami turns from the board, almost entirely black from her marker pen scrawls, "who would like to read the next passage out loud, titled _Formation of the Current Government?"_

Unsurprisingly, no one raises their hand.

The days pass by without much fanfare. I'm locked back into regular life – or as regular as my life can be – as if the whole rebel debacle didn't even happen. As if the Voice's proposals aren't now laying in the locked drawer in my desk, waiting for someone to read them.

For the right someone, at least.

At the end of this class, I'm going to ask Cami to make it official. To organise a trip to the Prime Minister's government house.

Cami sighs. "Very well. Sir… Watanabe. Please read the next passage."

I glance behind us to Yamato's resigned grimace. He's sitting alone at his desk now, since I eliminated Nathaniel Durham yesterday. It was a mutual thing; Nathaniel felt only relief when I let him go, and I decided not to make a big deal out of it. Still, there was a distinct roll of tension when class began this morning without him, the quietly intellectual Selected who seemed to know everything.

Yamato reads, and I look back at my book to follow along. Except besides me, Elliot's pencil works softly along the margins of his workbook. Sketching again. Now that we have so many classes together, I've noticed the drawing he does – it's like a tick, a habit, almost, when a pencil is put in his hand. Today he's drawing one of the succulents on Cami's desk.

"Psst," I whisper to him. "Aren't you going to listen?"

"I am," he says, and keeps drawing.

Somehow I doubt it. Cami's words ring in my head; _he needs to pay attention more than most._ Pity washes over me and then I instantly feel bad for it. If he wants to get better, he should be reading along.

Yamato stops.

"… Continue, please," says Cami.

"I'm sorry for stopping, Your Majesty," says Yamato, "but I find Elliot Sawyer's drawing very distracting."

My bad goes rigid cold, but that's nothing to the absolute stillness Elliot's inhibits with the accusation. Cami's attention hones on the pair of us, but seeing me with my finger on the text, and Elliot's fingers wrapped around a pencil, she must deduce I'm not the one encouraging him.

"Put the pencil down please, Sir Sawyer," she says, almost exasperated. "You should make notes on the passage."

Elliot obeys wordlessly, but not without turning and shooting the darkest look he can muster Yamato's way. _Be discreet,_ I think, inching my head to see Yamato's reaction, but he merely looks back at the textbook and continues.

 _What happened there?_ I thought Kingsley vs. Soren was the only rivalry boiling beneath the surface, but there's clearly some bad blood festering between Elliot and Yamato if that dirty glare was anything to go by.

"Hey, are you okay?" I whisper to Elliot.

"Fine," he whispers. "Yamato just thinks he's better than everyone else."

 _He does?_ "I didn't think Yamato was that type of person."

"Me neither."

Nearer the end of class, Cami hushes us for silence.

"I can see some of you struggle to engage with the material, so I've decided for our next few topics, I'm going to change the way I present them. Or, should I say, _we_ present them." She takes a sheet of paper from her folder. "In groups of five, we're going to hold presentations about one topic and show them to the class."

Whispers unfurl between the Selected. Group projects. The bane of everyone's existence.

Zelda groans from her seat at the front. "Really, Aunt Cami?"

"Yes, really." She fixes Zelda a stern look. "You and Gail will also contribute to these projects, so you won't be left out."

"Yeah, because _being left out_ was what I was really worried about," grumbles Zelda.

"Every group will have an assigned leader," says Cami; if she heard Zelda's comment she doesn't show it. "It's obvious that some people here are more take-charge than others, but I'd like to see how well all of you fare in roles of leadership. It's very important when you're part of the royal family."

Her eyes find mine. So this is supposed to help me choose?

Cami runs through the groups. "Kajika Bahe, Zelda, Valerian Griffin, Ansel Hewlett, and Levi Song, you're in one group. Sir Bahe, you're group leader."

At least Zelda knows Kajika. They're friends from history class.

"Silas Braxton, Maurice Elsmore, Nicholas Jacobs, Jasper Korrapati and Max Wellington, you are the second group. Maurice Elsmore is leader."

Two desks away, Maurice slouches in his chair.

"Jeremiah Hill, Sheng Mah, Kingsley Obasanjo, Benedict Santiago and Parker Zaleski, you're the third group. Sheng Mah is group leader."

My eyes dart to Sheng a seat in front, where his hands are frozen over the page. Sheng is a strange case where he'd both be great and terrible as a role model, and I can't help but wallow in a rush of pity that invades my senses. To have to command _Kingsley,_ too…

"Finally, Avian Homes, Soren Reinhart, Gail, Elliot Sawyer, and Yamato Watanabe, you are the final group. Your group leader… is Yamato Watanabe."

 _Oh heck._ Elliot's face is white with dread. Not moments ago he was probably secretly rejoicing at the fact that he'd never have to be any closer to Yamato than he is right now. Now he's our group leader. Now they're forced to work together. It takes all my willpower not to turn around to see Yamato's reaction to the news, too.

"As you can see," Cami puts down her Soul-Destroying Sheet of Group Massacre on the desk, "I have split the friendship groups I've seen in the Men's Parlour. Sometimes, when you're in my position, you have to work with people you don't know, and that is a given of the job."

 _Don't know?_ I think, wincing. _Try don't like_.

"You'll have two weeks to create a five-minute presentation on your topic. Your group leader should take charge and be firm on what needs to be done, but also compassionate, kind, and understanding. I and I'm sure Princess Gail will be keeping an eye on all of you as you embark on these projects." She winks at me. "No pressure to the boys in Gail's group, of course."

"No pressure…" Elliot murmurs.

"Myself, Rudy, JJ and Lilly Carter will judge your presentations. Best to worst. And if you're in the worst presentation, well…" She looks at me. "I can't enforce an elimination, but I'm sure Gail won't like to keep someone who neither works well with others nor pulls their weight."

All my haunches rise as everyone looks at me. I have to _eliminate_ someone at the end of this?

"Isn't that a little harsh?" I say quietly to her as the groups rearrange themselves for the first meetings. "I mean, I don't mind doing an elimination, but it's like a punishment."

"It's to motivate them," Cami says instead. "You don't have to eliminate anyone at the end of the projects, but if there is a group that performed badly, you can make your own judgement about whether you want to keep them or not."

Sobered by the prospect, our ragtag bunch is shoehorned into the back clump of desks when Kingsley declares there should be a ten-foot radius between us all so no one can possibly steal his presentation ideas. It's not winter yet but the temperature in this group is nearly ice cold. Besides Elliot and Yamato, I've never seen Avian nor Soren interact much with them or each other. They're all so different. It could work, or… it could be a disaster.

(Banking on the latter.)

Still, I want a good grade, and I like everyone in this group so far and don't want to have to eliminate them, so if I have to hold the strings together myself, I will.

Yamato is all stoic poise as he sits himself down with the sheet of notes from Cami and pulls out a notepad. I copy, and the others do too. Except Elliot.

"Our chosen topic is the political motivations behind Selections of the past," he says, voice smooth and even. "So we should start by making general notes on any ideas we have."

"Selections of the _past_ , ey?" Avian says, winking at me. "Shame we can't talk about this Selection."

"Are you suggesting my Selection is politically motivated?"

"Always knew you were dodgy, Highness."

I laugh. Soren makes a grunting noise that I take for amusement. Elliot chuckles.

Yamato does nothing.

I remember that time I found him at the rink, a few weeks ago. Alone, skating across the ice like it was butter, beautiful as a swan on a lake. But he was cold, too. Cold like the ice he travels so seamlessly upon. Now I can see it in force with the other Selected – and worse is that I recognise he's not a cold person, far from it, but it's like he has nothing to be happy about here, amongst this group of people.

"Let's not get distracted. We have to get a good grade." He taps his pen to notepad. "Actual ideas?"

"You're the group leader. Shouldn't _you_ be contributing ideas?"

Elliot's remark sounds off-hand, but the tension is all there in his crossed arms and hunched shoulders. Besides me, Avian stiffens.

"I lead the discussion. You contribute ideas," says Yamato coolly.

"You're not leading the discussion very much right now."

"That's because there is no discussion."

Elliot's face tightens, then he slouches in his chair. I think he'll take it further, escalate the situation, but all he does is shrug and glare at the wall by Soren's head.

"Well, er," I scramble for something to say. "You know as well as I do that most, if not all, Selections have political motivations. The very first Selection was instated partly to boost the country's morale, partly to cover up the staged death of Illéa's eldest son."

"There. We can work with that," says Yamato. "You should write this down. All of you."

Elliot refuses, on the basis that he has nothing to write it down. I consider writing two sets of notes, but I'm not Elliot's or anyone's messenger and I don't want to be, even at the expense of my grades. Yamato definitely notices, and his eyes crinkle, but he doesn't say anything.

"Further Selections were also done to boost morale in times of civil turmoil. Most famous example is Maxon Schreave's." Soren doesn't bother to look up as he speaks, too focused on his own notes. "Probably the last one before the First Casteless Era."

"Your brother's is free real estate, right?" asks Avian.

"… If by that you mean we can talk about it, I think so," I say. "It's a past Selection. And the only reason he had one was because my mother thought it would make him more responsible. So, politically motivated to become a better heir for the country… maybe?"

"We can spin it," Avian assures.

We continue discussing for ten or so minutes to get some decent ideas out, and Yamato assigns us one prominent Selection to look into as Cami wanders over.

"How's it going?"

"We have some ideas," I say, when no one else pipes up. "We've chosen some Selections to discuss in our presentation and we're all going to pick one to learn about each."

She nods. "That's a good idea." To Yamato she adds, "Make sure Gail doesn't get Roy's Selection."

"What? But why?"

"That's far too easy."

Her eyes twinkle as she leaves us, and I stick out my tongue. _Meanie_.

"In that case, Your Highness can have King Maxon's Selection. Soren, King Roy's Selection. Avian, King Clarkson's Selection. I will look at the first Selection with Damon Illéa. Elliot, Queen Diantha's Selection."

Elliot reels back. "Why do _I_ get Diantha?"

"Because it's the easiest. There's so much to talk about you can't possibly get it wrong." He glances up to the rest of us. "Objections?"

My mouth welds shut. _You can't possibly get it wrong._ Oop.

With myself and Avian too stunned to say anything, and Soren letting the comment bounce harmlessly off, Yamato sweeps his notes into his bag. "Good. Then we'll meet back tomorrow to discuss our findings."

"Tomorrow?" Avian says with a strangled cry. "That's not exactly a lot—"

"We don't have a lot of time. Two weeks."

Then he's out and gone, with us left to blink back the dust of his wake.

Elliot stands and packs his bag. His sharp movements and tensed posture suggests anger, but I see only hurt in his eyes, hollow from the small comment.

"I'll see you all later."

He leaves too, but not out the door – he goes straight to Cami, and then both of them disappear. Pity envelops me, not in a kind hug, but a vice grip that squeezes every last drop of guilt into the pit of my stomach, and even though I have nothing to be guilty about, somehow I still feel responsible.

"But I don't understand," my small voice is shrouded by the din of the classroom, "what happened between those two?"

Avian lets out a long sigh. "Oh boy. You don't know?"

"No?"

"Elliot was watching ice hockey in the Men's Parlour. Yamato came in, saw it, and made a comment off-hand about it being a brutish sport played by anyone with the IQ of a vegetable."

My mouth drops open. _He. Said. What?!_

"It was… bad," says Soren.

"I meeeeeean." Avian winces. "I'm more of a skating guy myself, but sheesh. Obviously it made Elliot mad and he tried to argue, but Yamato wouldn't even pay him any attention! So then Elliot said really loudly that ice skating was super easy compared to hockey, and oh god, it's like they started their own Cold War."

"When did this happen?"

"About a week ago," says Soren.

"Yeah. They never really got along to begin with, but this was a whole new level. I don't think Yamato has any idea how pissed he made Elliot. He's kind of clueless."

As someone who loves ice hockey with my whole heart my first instinct is to defend it like I would family. I know Elliot feels the same – the way he frees himself on the ice is testament to that. But I must reserve my opinion. Ice hockey? I could recite its bible. Ice _skating?_ What do I even know?

Still, it hurts to think that Yamato's opinion is so lowly. Of me, especially. Even forgetting that I'm secretly on a hockey team, it's no surprise that I love the sport. Did he think it wouldn't get back to me?

 _No wonder he was so disgusted at the idea of playing it with me,_ I think, the memory of his fluid routine cursed with the aftermath.

And just like that, an idea forms in my mind. It's wrong on so many levels, Yamato hating ice hockey as much as he does. I could eliminate him here and now, but what would that achieve? One person who still thinks ill of my favourite thing ever? That won't do.

No, I'll have to convince him.

And maybe I can get Elliot to help me.

I stand up. "Okay. We all want good grades, so let's research our Selections and meet up tomorrow."

Avian runs a hand through his ginger hair. "Highness, that's not a lot of time. I've got other things to do, you know? We all have that essay on the World Wars for thingy that's due in a coupla' days, and you probably have princess stuff—"

"I know, but Yamato's team leader, and that's what he wants. So let's all work really hard." I put my hand in. "Team Yamato!"

"I—" Avian frowns. "Can I suggest Team Yamato, feat. Avian?"

"Fine. Team Yamato, feat. Avian!"

We both look at Soren. He sighs.

"Team Yamato, feat. Avian."

When the boys are dismissed, I wait at the desk for Cami to return. Forget everything I just learnt within the past hour, from politics to Selection rivalry; I have enough on my chest right now. Before long Cami returns inside alone and frowns at the sight of me.

"I suppose I didn't catch everything in the Men's Parlour," she murmurs once the door is shut. "Sir Sawyer has asked to change groups."

Big surprise. "What did you tell him?"

"I said no." She gives me a look like it was obvious. "And I said that, sometimes, it's about working with people you don't like. Life here is compromise."

"Very wise of you."

She smirks. "You must want something."

I rock back and forth on my feet, feigning a whimsical mood. Maybe that will sway her more easily.

"Actually, I wanted to ask if you'd made good on your idea for excursions for class." I clasp my hands together, almost like I'm inwardly praying for success. "Remember you asked whether we could go to the government hub? In Allens?"

"Yes. Why?"

"Well, how about making good on that offer?" I bounce on my toes. "I think it would be fun!"

Cami frowns. "With everything going on right now, with the rebels—"

"All the more reason to go! It's very secure at the Ivory House, isn't it?" The Ivory House is the building that Ahmed lives in, named for the grungy off-white shade it has turned over the thousands of years it has stood. "You're doing these presentations to change up how the Selected learn, so why not compound your teachings by going there?"

Her body loosens with ponder. I hold my grin, hoping, _pleading_ inwardly that this will sway her, and I can get these proposals to Ahmed without waiting too long. Without endangering myself or the people to the Resurgence's whims.

"I'll see what I can do," she says eventually, and it bursts a delightful spritz up my back. "But it will take time to organise. Weeks, at least."

"Oh, thank you, thank you!" I throw myself into a hug. "You're the best sister!"

Cami stiffens at first, but squeezes me so tightly I can scent the perfume of her living quarters on her clothes. _Cinnamon, sandalwood, Roy._ When I pull away, I see there are some tears in her eyes.

"Oh, Cami! Why—?"

"It's nothing," she says, hastily wiping them away. "I just… I care about you a lot, Gail, and it means so much to me that you think of me that way. It's just been… hard, as of late. With the rebels, and… other things."

My delight clumps together and drops like a brick down my throat. _Is this the argument with Roy? Is she going to tell me about it?_

"It's just small stressors. Nothing to worry about." She shakes her head, dismissing the topic like sweeping dust off a table top. "I think a break would be really nice. I can't organise a trip to Allens fast, but there is this thing I've been looking into…"

"Oh?"

She takes me around to her desk and boots up the computer. Quickly her hands find a page for an architecture event. "Several historians are doing a talk on the building of the Golden Gate Bridge in about a week."

The Golden Gate Bridge.

I nearly gasp aloud.

That's in San Francisco. Location of the first tournament game against the Franciscan Ferrets. Which is also in a week. So focused I've been on rebels and plans that I've put the match on the substitute bench, waiting for a summon that wasn't coming. Zelda hasn't yet been able to think of any grandiose scheme to get us out of here, either.

This is perfect.

"Yes!" I blurt, then reel myself in. "Yes, let's go there. That sounds wonderful!"

"It's an architecture talk…"

"I mean, well, I can take a handful of Selected and we can tour the city whilst you go to the talk, and we can stay there for overnight. What do you think?" I rapidly search for other events on the search engine. "Look, see, there's a chocolate festival on the same day. We can go to that. You know I like chocolate."

"I will never forget when you were fifteen and made a chocolate cowboy hat to prove to Roy that you could, and then it melted in your hair and you had to get bangs cut."

"Yeah, well, on that day I discovered I looked good with bangs, so silver linings."

"Touché." She nods her head. "I'll see if I can pull together a place to stay and a small team to accompany us. But Gail," she fixes me a stern look, "we must be very careful. The rebels have it out for you. You have a target painted on your back."

"I know."

"Promise me you won't do anything silly that could endanger yourself."

My first proper match. Looks like I'll get to play for the Angeles All-Stars after all.

"I promise," I lie.

* * *

 **A/N:** Ollo everyone! I hope you had a restful start to 2020. We're back with sneaky proposals, bitter rivalries, and hair-brained schemes to get wily princesses to San Francisco for hockey tournaments... Is this Gail's wisest idea yet? Definitely not. Is it her riskiest? Quite possibly...

Let me know what you thought, and do leave a review. I do like reading your reviews.

Thanks for reading!

~ GWA

NTT: "It was phallic and you know it."


	28. A Hot Mess

It's not a secret that I love chocolate, so when our limo crests the hill overlooking the largest chocolatier's festival this side of the country, you can bet I let out a little " _Eeeeeee!"_

Cami, opposite me, layered in a thick designer parka and a woollen scarf, chuckles at my buzzing energy. "Don't go too mad, okay? I understand chocolate is delicious but if you eat too much you'll make yourself sick."

Zelda is next to me, feet up on the rest of the seat and glued to her phone. She scoffs.

"That's what all the weaklings say, Aunt Cami."

"Hah! I'd like to see you both say that when your stomach is bloated like a balloon. Especially you, Gail. I know you can't resist."

I stick out my tongue and she laughs. Cami may be under the impression that I intend to go wild at this festival, but my due diligence prevents me. I'm only allowing myself to have samples, actually, torture as it will be to resist eating everything on sight. Resist really, super hard.

Because I have to be ready for tonight's match. The Angeles All-Stars versus the Franciscan Ferrets. First game of the regional tournament.

The team departed yesterday to stay and rest up in the hotel today. We're going to acquaint ourselves with the arena and start practice at five o'clock, an hour before the game. Zelda and I declined the hotel and travel, Zelda throwing out some excuse that we could get there ourselves, but we cannot miss the warm-ups. It's imperative we don't.

Problem is, we haven't exactly worked out how we're going to escape the hotel. We have a basic route through the laundry chute in our lounge – Zelda's idea – but we don't know where it leads or if we'll meet resistance. All I know is that we'll figure it out. We always do.

Cami is only here as a guest of the San Francisco Architecture Society, who are giving a special evening dinner lecture around the construction of the Golden Gate Bridge. At least I won't have to worry about running into her tonight.

Outside, the terrain fluctuates from dips to curves like an erratic heartrate monitor. Luckily the skies have blessed us with a fogless day, leaving the rest of the city a sparkling mass of people, buildings and cars crammed on inclines and slopes. The chocolate festival is located by the shoreline, overlooked by the original Ghirardiva factory that still makes the highest quality of chocolate today. Little tents are erected to cover the chocolatiers' workshops, who display glass cases of so many different types of truffles, mousses, macaroons, éclairs, cookies and brownies, enough to make any cynic salivate. I even invited Aderyn – famous chocolate sceptic – to join us, but she opted to stay at the hotel and oversee the cleaning procedures.

We head down the hill and into a private car park, and the convoy pulls up outside the door to the factory, where the Ghirardiva CEO will greet us for press and then let us on our way. As usual, security exits first, to sweep the place.

I turn around to watch the Selected's limo slide in behind us, smaller but no less regal.

Cami chuckles again. "What made you choose those five, Gail?"

I turn to face her, but her gaze is locked on the limo. "The Selected? I picked them out of a hat."

"Except for that one guy. What's his name?" Zelda looks up from her phone to give me a daggered glare. "You know, that farm boy."

I clam up. "Sheng."

"Yeah. Funny. Him, you chose yourself."

Okay, maybe I did pick Sheng. Maybe I remembered that we called him Chocolate Ninja for a reason. Maybe I know he'll enjoy this. It's totally not for anything else.

"It seems only fair to invite someone called _Chocolate Ninja_ by his friends, don't you think?"

Unfortunately neither Zelda nor Cami believes my bashful expression. Cami leans back.

"Oh? Do you like him, then? Sheng?"

"N-No."

"Mmm. Okay, Gail."

Cami's eyes twinkle and it is annoying but also I hate myself for blushing.

"H-He's nice to look at. That's all."

"Tch," Zelda says, pocketing her phone and tugging her bright green scarf around her neck. "Eye candy or not, it's not exactly fair. You should've pulled them all out of a hat."

"Hey now, Zelda. The Selection was never a fair competition." Cami winks at me. "Let Gail bring along whomever she wants."

 _But I don't want Sheng._

 _And yet, why did I bring him?_

Thankfully Naomi cracks open the door, cutting our unfortunate conversation short. "Ready to go?"

"Yep!" Zelda is the first to exit. Flashes burst out as she does, so the press must be here somewhere. She leans in at me. "Sheesh, I hope it's not as bad at the festival."

Cool, November air swirls through my thick dress and fleece stockings. I wave politely at the piranha press that are cordoned off by security gates, before turning to greet the host of the chocolate festival. When our hands shake, the cameras go wild.

"Thank you so much for your attendance, Your Majesty, Your Highness," says William Akwon, Ghirardiva CEO, as he shakes Cami's hand. "You are free to explore the festival as much as you like. We'll offer you free samples of anything you'd like to try."

Which, Mr Fancy Chocolate Man, isn't helping me make wise decisions.

The Selected limo parks and the doors open in front of us. First out is Parker, who nearly trips in his excitement, but rights himself, shakes hands with Akwon and somehow acquires the chocolatier's programme in one breath. Zelda whined when I picked him out of the hat, saying he would 'bounce like a hyper child for the whole thing', but the hat is sacred, and Parker was delighted to receive an invite.

"Sheesh." Silas steps out next, dapper in his pea coat. "I need whatever he's had."

Zelda snorts. "Pure sugar."

Parker, halfway through the programme, harrumphs dramatically. "Hey, I resent tha— ooo, merveilleux!"

"I would like some pure sugar." Kajika emerges next, long hair flying in the breeze. Unlike the other boys in coats, he opts for a thick, wool cardigan, and makes it work, too. The cameras are clicking away more fiercely now, but it doesn't seem to bother him at all. "Though I think all the chocolate will suffice."

In typical Jasper fashion, he blooms from the vehicle door with sunglasses and a grin that could summon Satan from Hell below. Today his suit matches the occasion: dark brown blazer and pants that marble with beige and black.

"I, for one, await the moment that Parker crashes from the sugar rush."

"I-I won't crash," Parker protests, as he flits page to page in the programme for no more than half a second each. Oh yeah. He'll crash.

My eyes catch on the last figure that slips out of the limo, no fanfare. If Sheng deliberately planned his outfit to attract my attention, a crisp tailored suit that is just tight enough to outline the muscle beneath, then he has, reluctantly, succeeded and then some. He makes no sound to converse with the rest of us but meets my eye, pleading lying in wait, and I turn away.

When the pictures and mini press interviews end, we are finally released into the festival proper with a large guard around us at all times. Cami seems to have entered a pensive mood and so slips away with her own people to wander quietly through the stalls, probably to find something to take home. Is she still thinking about Roy and that argument? It's so confusing – one moment they were yelling at each other and the now they're holding hands, cooing sympathy over rebel interference and making googly eyes at one another. Yet Cami still seems sad.

 _Little stressors,_ she said the other day, when she said she wanted to leave the palace. I can't think her marriage is a little stressor.

But I won't let the thought or the implications ruin my day, so I purge my brain and continue into the festival with Zelda and the Selected boys, forming a penguin huddle with the guards around us.

"So where first?" asks Silas.

The stalls on either side of us wave and beckon, and the crowds split to let us pass. There's so much on display beneath the white canopies that garland the walkways. Huge trays of dusted truffles, hard truffles, truffles topped with strawberry pieces or dipped in layers of caramel. Rows upon rows of pure chocolate slabs, decorated with dried fruit or peanuts or white, red and blue sauces. There are five-tiered cake masterpieces that ooze warm chocolate sauce or fountains that flow with rich, hot cocoa.

If Parker were an anime character, he'd have hearts for eyes.

"Let's s-start at the beginning and work to the end!" He turns to me, his lower lip trembling. "Is there a budget? Please— please say there's no budget."

"Everything's free to try," I mention, which might as well be the match to light Parker's bomb.

He shoots off and begins his massive taste test. Jasper just cackles, mutters "the crash in inevitable" and saunters behind to watch. The group splits – which is fine. It is kind of impractical for all of us plus our guards to sandwich ourselves in the small path between the stalls.

"Kaji and I were gonna' sample all the truffles," says Zelda, as she loops her arm with Kajika's. "He challenged me to beat me in an eating contest!"

Kajika frowns. "I issued no such challenge."

"Is what fools say! C'mon!" She throws daggers at Sheng. "You should come too, don't you think, _Chocolate Ninja?"_

Sheng chastens. "Thank you, but I don't want to get sick."

Zelda doesn't seem happy at the rejection – I know she was only doing it to get him away from me – but she tuts nonetheless. "Coward. Silas?"

Silas rears back so his neck and chin become one. "I'm not a coward but I don't want to get sick either."

"Pfffft. Weaklings, the lot of you."

"Hey," I pipe, "I'm not a weakling."

She only raises her eyebrows at me, which gets an undignified snort from Silas, and drags Kajika away to their truffle-devouring competition.

"Don't eat too much!" I call, but I know it's useless. She doesn't have to play tonight, anyway. Only watch from her comfy spot on the side-lines with Bellona. As long as she's well enough to sit there, she can eat as much as she likes. I turn to Silas and Sheng as nerves flitter in my stomach. "Shall we continue on?"

We pass towers of truffles, tins overflowing with wrapped sweets, and candy bars as big as my head. Our fingers dip in every stall as vendors foist their samples into our eager hands, and the chocolate melts in my mouth. For a little while, anyway. After not long they all start to taste the same.

"I need something to refresh my palate," I say, as we meander from tent to tent, idly plucking pieces of chocolate from plates. "Like… a vegetable or something."

"A vegetable?" Silas laughs. "Don't think you'll find any of those here. Though I could go with something green to make me feel better."

Sheng nods his head onwards. "There's that."

One particularly quiet stall peddles chocolate covered apples, chocolate covered strawberries, and chocolate covered—

"Chillies!" I gasp. "Oh, we have to try one!"

They are skewered and ordered in a stand like cake pops, coating in white chocolate drizzle. Deceptively tasty. I interrogate the seller who practically leaps in her boots at my interest.

"Chillies with milk chocolate and white chocolate. Tastier than meets the eye." She offers me a sample. "How much heat can you handle, Your Highness?"

"Pfft. I can take it."

I take a great, big bite.

And it's like I've stuck my tongue into lava.

The seeds burst in my mouth, and though the flavour and texture of the chocolate softens the blow, it bangs my taste buds in a harsh wail of a wake-up call and catapults all the moistness of my mouth into heck. My face must go bright red as the seller smirks and Silas stifles a cough-laugh.

"T-Too hot!" I manage.

"There's a hot chocolate stand just a few down," the seller recommends. "Best one here."

We step away as Naomi steps forwards. "I've got you a bottle of water, Your Highness."

I go to take it, but Sheng holds up a hand. "That will make it worse." He's taken on such a serious tone. Like I really have eaten lava. "No, a warm chocolate drink would be good. A cup of milk, better."

"I'll get you one." Both Silas and Sheng offer at exactly the same time, and bewildered, turn to each other.

Silas speaks up. "No, I'll go, since you seem to be Mr Chilli Expert. I'll be back in a second."

And so he goes.

And so I'm left alone. With Sheng. And a burning tongue.

Typical.

I wave away the concerned bodyguards, including Sheng, but he hovers around me.

"Don't breathe," he says in a low voice. "Wait. That came out wrong. Don't open your mouth and gulp in cold air, is what I mean, no matter how tempting. It will only make it worse."

"O-Okay," I say, resisting the urge to flap my tongue in the air. "It's not even that bad, I swear. You're making this out to be a big deal."

"I don't want you in pain." He sighs. "Why would you agree to eat a jalapeño?"

"I-I thought it was just a normal chilli! A normal hot chilli!"

To my surprise, he bursts out laughing. And it's a beautiful sound, a harmony of a choir with the rugged roughness of a mountainside in winter. It tugs all my heartstrings like a harp.

"You're hopeless," he teases.

"You're a big meanie!" I say, with puffed cheeks that do not make me take the heat better. He can tease me, but oh, I can tease more. "I should send you home right now and go back to Silas. No, Kingsley! You wouldn't laugh at me then!"

Then it's gone. His whole face shuts down like I hit the off switch.

"What? What's wrong? I-I was joking."

His expression is closed off now, and he tugs me aside. My heart does a somersault in my chest then slams into my ribcage, hoping to break free before whatever conversation brews on his lips. That brooding, stoic expression that mars his handsome features with a deep cut of his thick eyebrows. He always seems like that, but it's like if the Mona Lisa hunched her shoulders a little more in her portrait; it's only discernible by experts. And I am a Sheng expert.

He wavers. "It's been on my mind for a while."

I weave my arm with his to make it look like we're just two happy people walking around a chocolate festival with absolutely no baggage here. The crowds are thick but they give us space with the ring of guards, who give us space further.

"It's Kingsley," he ejects it from his mouth forcefully. "It's about him."

I frown. "What about Kingsley? He's not here, and I was really only making a joke. I know he riles you up."

"I wondered… why have you kept him?"

Oh. So this is about the last talk I had with him, that Kingsley is secretly a jerk to everyone and anyone around him. With Soren backing up his claims it's hard not to think they're right; neither of them are liars.

Can it really be? Kingsley, a big meanie? Honestly, that I can see it happening puts a damper on my festive spirits. But what about Tay? Tay _adores_ Kingsley. How heart-breaking would it be to take him out of the competition for my little brother?

"No. I'm keeping him."

Sheng goes still at my side. "Do you… not believe me? Kingsley… he's not a nice person."

"It's not that," I say, facing him. "Tay really likes Kingsley."

He winces. He knows it's true.

"I've never questioned Tay's ability to judge character. You know my brother, he's smart but he's really shy. It takes him a long time to warm up to people. Heck, I don't think he's even really warmed up to you, yet."

"We haven't interacted much."

"Exactly. The fact that Tay thinks Kingsley is the bomb is a sign to me that he's isn't as bad as you say he is."

"Of course he's really nice to the prince," Sheng says. "He's kind to you as well because he wants to win. The rest of us he treats like garbage."

"Well, you don't have to be nice to him back. Just civil."

"Kingsley is not civil."

" _Not civil_ to me is literally bar-style fighting, and has he thrown a punch yet?"

Reluctantly, Sheng shakes his head.

"So there you go. Rivalry and competition between you all is natural, but I won't have you nor Soren take advantage of your positions with me to sabotage his. If you want him to get eliminated then you'll just have to work harder to win me."

Silence for a moment. To avoid looking into Sheng's eyes, I admire the stalls around us, tongue itching from the heat. Chocolate brims from every stand, but we're right in front of a chocolatier's workshop, with a giant croquembouche lathered in chocolate and cream.

"All right." Sheng's quiet voice pierces my reverie. "I can do that."

I make the mistake of looking up at him. His soft gaze melts even my frostiest of moods. Heat from my mouth redirects to my cheeks and I glance back at the display.

"Would you like one?" he asks. "They have cream inside. That will help with the heat."

"Oh, no. It's okay."

He coaxes me forwards. "Here. I'll get you one."

The little éclair wrapped it paper and drizzled with a little more chocolate. The first bite soothes my mouth, a sweet mixture of pastry and cocoa and cream, and, he's right, it does take the edge off the sucker punch of the jalapeño.

"Yum!" I pipe, finishing it into another bite. "Thank you, Sheng."

He nods once. "Oh. You have cream on your lip."

"Where?"

"Here."

His thumb brushes across the corner of my mouth. My cheeks blast heat again and I have to fight not to turn away and fan myself. _Stupid heart,_ I think. _He betrayed you. Why do you always forget that?_

Yet the thought flees my head entirely as his hand cups my chin, thumb still lingering over my lips. The touch sends up an ecstatic jolt. Memories spiral back, of our first kiss – of me doing this exact same thing to him when he was covered in chocolate, our bodies so close. The ghost of his gentleness as he pulled me in, sealed the gap between us.

Sheng's eyes are turmoil. They spark like a fuse ready to blow. Ready to reach for that moment again. He leans close.

And I, traitorous as I am, stand on my tiptoes.

His breath warms my cheeks.

"Gail…" he whispers.

"Hey, Princess, sorry for making you wait, the line was so—"

I jerk back, a gasp inhaling the cold, sharp air. Silas stands rigid still about two paces away, one cup of steaming hot chocolate in his hand and the other a plain cup of cool milk. His expression falls neatly into an uncaring, almost factory-reset default.

"Oh. I— I'll go."

"No, erm, thank you." I take the milk and slurp noisily if only to kill the silence that chokes me. "Sheng and I— we were just talking."

Sheng's arm, at first wrapped closely around my back, snaps to his side. "Just talking?" he mumbles.

"Yes." I give him a hard look. "About the pepper."

Silas scoffs. "I'm not an idiot, Your Highness. I can see exactly what you were doing."

He turns and stalks away. I grimace, my mouth opening to protest but nothing comes out, and the moment bites at my heart. Why did I even think he'd accept that we were 'just talking' as an excuse? _Why, why, why?_ My stomach twists into a knot.

"I… I want to win your heart, Gail. Fairly." Shame crosses the edges of Sheng's deep voice. "And I don't want to hide it or dress it up as something else. Why are you embarrassed to kiss me in front of Silas?"

I puff out a breath. "I don't want to hurt him."

"So you'll hurt me?"

"No! That's not—" I sigh. "It's just very public and I haven't even narrowed my choices down to the Elite and this was supposed to be a friendly, fun adventure out from the palace with some people who make me happy." I huff. "And for goodness sake, I just ate a really hot pepper! Do you think I'm kissable right now?"

"Yes," he mumbles. "Always."

I flush again. "Well, I don't want to do anything romantic right now."

His lips form a wan line. "It's a Selection."

"I know."

"It will always be romantic."

"I know."

"I want to win, Gail." The revelation comes less like a rising sun over the horizon and more like a hot breeze across my skin. Surprising, but not unpleasant. "I want to win the Selection. For you."

"O-okay," I say, a little flustered by his forcefulness.

He takes my cup and puts it on a nearby surface, then holds my hands in his. Gloved as they are, his fingers rub mine gently, but firmly, and the touch ignites my entire body. Then he brings them to his lips, and even through the wool, I feel the warmth of his breath.

"I want to win the Selection for you, and I will try my best to do that, competition or not. I want to be worthy of you in every aspect, and if that means I will have to challenge some of the others for that position, so be it. I will work hard for you." He presses two kisses to the backs of my hands. "Count on it, Gail."

My feet go to jelly and I nearly keel into his side. Oh god, I'm a total sucker for declarations like this. Why does it make me swoon?

 _Remember he betrayed you._

I retract my hands and cough noisily. "Thank you, Sheng. You _will_ have to work hard."

He nods, determination burning in his eyes.

"Okay." I take back my drink. "Let's find the others."

It's not hard to find Zelda and Kajika, who have settled at the first truffle stall nearer the entrance. And by settled, I mean, Zelda is sitting with her head flat on the table, groaning, as Kajika kindly but bewilderedly pats her head.

"She lost," he offers.

"I did not," Zelda says between a groan. "I'm just… taking a break."

"An extended break that will continue indefinitely," Kajika clarifies, but with a smile as Zelda raises her head to glare at him. "Where is Silas?"

"He, erm, went off on his own for a little while." Definitely don't need to share how that all went down. "What about Parker and Jasper? Have you seen them?"

Kajika nods his head. Limping towards us is Jasper, his arm wrapped around a sullen and drained Parker. So the crash happened. Parker slumps in the chair next to Kajika and drops his head to the table.

"I have one regret," he mumbles.

"Me too," says Jasper. "That I didn't have a camera."

"My stomach hurts."

"My face hurts… from laughing so much."

Parker flings up a hand. "Look what I have to deal with."

"Perhaps you shouldn't have eaten so much chocolate?" Kajika suggests.

"Disgusting!" Parker's head flies up with his brows scrunched. "I'm not a weakling!"

"Thank you!" says Zelda.

Sheng rubs his temple.

Keeping my attention evenly distributed and totally not fixated on Sheng, the party eventually moves off to watch a chocolatier's competition in the middle of the square. Underneath a large white tent, bakers present their giant chocolate cakes to professional chefs, who judge and critique their work on stage. Like a discount Great Illéan Bake Off. With reserved seats, we're right at the front; on my right, Zelda, rubbing her stomach, would obviously rather lie down, but rammed herself between myself and Sheng before he could claim a seat next to me. On my left, Jasper watches the judging unfold with not a hint of emotion.

"Which cake is your favourite so far?"

He shrugs. "They are all chocolate cakes. The only difference is the fondant."

"Yes, exactly." I nudge my head to the baker presenting now, with an uneven three-tiered masterpiece. "I like that one the most. The mermaid on the rocky beach shore is really cute."

"I see."

"You see?"

"I see."

Feeling this conversation going nowhere, I go quiet. It's no secret that Jasper and I share about as much chemistry as a shoebox with the desert.

"Why are you here?" I ask.

"Because I was invited, and I like watching Parker suffer. I don't even eat chocolate."

"No, erm— wait. You don't eat chocolate?"

"No. Makes my stomach funny."

Typical Jasper to accept an invite to a chocolate festival and _not_ say he didn't eat chocolate. "I actually meant, why are you here, in the Selection?"

For the first time he looks at me with curious, earnest eyes. Not the simper I'm so used to seeing.

"I'm here to prove a point."

"To whom? Me?"

"No."

It seems like that's all I'll learn about that. "What point do you want to prove?"

I think he won't answer as he goes sombre for a moment. I turn back to watch the competition, but then he says quietly. "That fame isn't all just riches, views, and rock solid abs."

"Hmm." I sit back, sobered by the comment. "I mean, I am rather wealthy, millions of people watch the Report, and though I may not have abs, I am very comfortable with my body."

Jasper snorts. "Hah. You know what I mean."

"Yeah. It's not everything it's chalked up to be." I shuffle. "Do you think your point is proven then?"

"I think so. To me, at least." He rolls his mouth. "The lack of privacy makes it difficult to adjust."

"And do you… do you think you see a future between us?"

He barks a laugh so loud the contestants glance down at us.

"You can just eliminate me, Your Highness. I won't take personal offence."

For the first time I don't feel like I'm ripping out a heart as I do it. "Okay, well… you can go home when we return?"

The corner of his lip curls. "I wouldn't mind that."

I sit back, contented for the rest of the show.

When the winner of the competition is crowned in a flurry of gold confetti and rapturous applause, our party is lead back to the square. There, rocking on the balls of his feet, Silas gazes into the harbour down the hill that glitters fiercely under the setting sun. Immediately my hair is on end, and that horrible, terrible, yucky guilty feeling gnaws at the tips of my fingers like frostbite. I tuck my hands into my coat.

"You missed the competition!" Zelda says as we reach him. She slaps his back. "It was pretty hilarious. One dude dropped his cake on his way to the judging station and bawled so much the organisers had to pry him from the stage. And this lady had a five-tiered cake shaped like a ding-a-long."

Kajika frowns. "It was the Statue of Liberty."

"It was phallic and you know it."

Silas' eyes meet mine for a brief second before sliding away. "Sorry I missed it." He doesn't sound very sorry. Everyone and their grandmother must be able to tell by his robotic movements and crossed arms that something is off.

Should I apologise to him? I kind of want to, but not in front of all these people. When I sneak a peek at Sheng, too, his eyebrows are bunched on his forehead like he personally wronged Silas himself.

Jasper stretches. "I, personally, am all chocolate'd out. Not as much as Parker, obviously."

Parker raises a hand. "Can we go back to the hotel? I need sleep."

"And vegetables," says Jasper.

I peek at my phone for the time. Three-thirty. Given the rink is only ten minutes from the hotel, it's time to head back. "Going back now sounds good."

My voice rings strained and forced against the back drop of the noisy square. Zelda meets notices immediately, by the way her shoulders rise. She probably thinks it has something to do with Sheng… which, okay, it does. But it also doesn't. She moves closer to me, wedging herself between me and Sheng again.

"I have no objections."

Surprisingly, Silas is second to speak. "I'd like to go back too." The rest of the Selected agree. I breathe a content sigh of relief as we do just that; I don't think I'll be able to look at chocolate without grimacing ever again.

The Bilton Hotel is a five-star luxury that spreads us thinly on the top floor, the penthouse suites, with a connecting private lounge with a fully stocked minibar, a giant flat screen TV fixed to the wall, and even a fireplace that warms us as the sun begins a gentle descent on the San Franciscan hills. Silas retires to his bedroom without another word, leaving me dejected, and Parker goes to rest too. Zelda, Kajika, Jasper, Sheng and I wait as the guards close the door for privacy.

I flop onto the sofa. We have an hour before we need to go, but I don't even feel like moving. This is no way to be feeling before the match. "I'm going to retire to my room for the day."

Sheng stands when I do. "Would you, erm… would you like some company?"

"No, thank you. I'm not feeling very well from all the chocolate."

I give Zelda a hard look – a _we need to go soon_ look – and she nods once.

Sheng takes the rejection with a gentle nod. Back in my room, I scrub my face of my princess make-up and stare idly at the mirror for a while. A text comes in from Zelda.

 _You seemed spooked. What did he do?_

 _Nothing,_ I shoot back. _It wasn't him. It was me._

 _We go in twenty minutes. Get your head in the game,_ comes her reply.

She's right. My stomach in knots means I might as well give the Ferrets the trophy before I even step on the ice. _I can't do this,_ I think. _I can't play hockey unless everything's right._

Twenty minutes. Plenty.

So I clean myself up, shut my bedroom door quietly behind me to a barren common area, and then march across to Silas' bedroom to knock quietly. He opens on the first swing, greeting me with the curls of his dark hair shadowing, but not entirely hiding, the narrow of his eyes.

"Your Highness."

"Can I… can I come in?"

He opens wider and lets me sit on the edge of his bed. He doesn't move to sit next to me, though, instead choosing to hover quietly by the window.

"I'm sorry," I say before I burst. "I didn't mean to insult you earlier."

"Well, you did," he fires back.

 _Oh heck._ "I know."

He turns to face me. "I'm not fragile, you know. I know what I signed up for when I started this competition. If you want to kiss the other boys, go ahead and do it. Don't half-ass it because I'm there."

I twiddle my thumbs. "I know, but I just…"

"You felt caught."

If only he knew how true that is.

"Yeah…"

He sighs. "You shouldn't. It's part of the Selection."

"I can't help it."

He turns back to the window. It's a glorious view, probably the best from Silas' room, with floor-to-ceiling windows that encapsulate the entire San Francisco skyline. In the distance, beyond the skyscrapers and the Painted Ladies is the Golden Gate Bridge, and somewhere around there Cami is enjoying her evening dinner lecture on architecture and history.

"You're gonna' have to learn to help it eventually," he says. "I won't be the first to walk into something intimate."

I stand by his side and watch the little cars below chug along the streets and hills. "I will. Eventually." I face him. "Am I forgiven?"

"Tch, you think you can bat your eyelashes and be forgiven so easily?"

"I-I'm not batting my eyelashes."

But he's teasing. Of course he's teasing. A smile emerges across his lips and splits them into a sly grin.

"Yeah, all right, you're forgiven. And you're definitely batting your eyelashes."

"You have longer ones than mine!" I protest. "What is it with boys and long, luscious eyelashes?"

Dramatically he flicks a curl out of his eyes. "It's because I'm worth it."

"That's L'Oreal."

"Yes, because I have fabulous hair to go with my long, luscious eyelashes."

I stick out my tongue and he grins. In my pocket my phone buzzes again. Rose.

 _Hey, what time are you getting to the rink? Felice wants to know._

I pocket it before Silas can see.

"I know you're probably tired," he starts suddenly, "but I wondered, since we didn't get much time together today… if you would sit with me a while."

"Sit?" Bewildered, I turn to him. "What do you mean?"

He shrugs. "I like your company, believe it or not. And it just seems a waste not to appreciate the skyline with someone when the sun's still out."

 _Time is ticking._ Suddenly my phone feels like a massive weight in my pocket. "Oh— well— I can't."

"You have somewhere else to be?" I can see the hurt again, reflecting behind his irises, even as he tries to hide it. "Sheng, I take it?"

"N-No, of course not. Don't be silly."

It's fine. It'll be fine. Late to the early session won't matter too much, will it? It's not fair to juggle his feelings like this, even with this other, pressing responsibility on my heels. I would rather be late than hurt Silas with my abruptness. I would rather be late than insult his intelligence again.

So I sit at the edge of his bed, and he next to me, body braced with his hands, and we watch the dying light that cools the horizon from vivid orange to deep ochre to slumbering light blue. Silas doesn't chat much, mostly just enjoying the view and company, and I can't help but enjoy his presence, even as my phone goes riot in my pocket.

Eventually I stand and take a deep breath. "I'm a little tired from travelling today. I might fall asleep if I'm not careful."

His face falls, but into a contented expression, and he stands as well. "All right then. You know… I like being here."

"I'm glad to hear it."

"I mean it. The Selection… it's fun." He crooks a smile. "And you're not half bad either."

That I am really glad to hear. Suddenly I'm feeling demure again, almost caught in another private moment. "Thank you."

"For?"

"Erm, forgiving me? Being so genuine?"

He waves a hand and gazes out pensively to the ocean again. "It's nothing."

I stand on my tiptoes and press a little kiss to his cheek anyway. "Then I appreciate nothing."

Red curls right up his cheek. He goes rigid. "Sure," comes the small voice. But he smiles in a way that I know he liked it, and my heart thumps a little harder in my chest.

As I gently close the door to the room, I sweep inwards. It's like a weight has been lifted. I feel more awake, alert.

" _The hell were you doing?"_

I turn, right into Zelda. The rest of the lounge is abandoned and dark, as if unoccupied. She has her barrel bag full of our clothes and disguises tossed over her shoulder.

"Do you know what time it is?" she hisses. "Shit, we're so late! I texted you—"

"I know, I know, but I couldn't leave Silas—" It's too much to explain, so I shake my head. "I'm here now. I'll grab my stuff, put on my make-up and we can go."

It's time for the first match against the Franciscan Ferrets.

* * *

I apply make-up at the speed of light, change, wig up and rush out to meet Zelda by the laundry chute by the wall near the entrance. I didn't mean to look at the time when I checked my phone, but it's there – five-ten, ten minutes later than we're supposed to be.

Zelda gives me a once-over, approving of my disguise, before her hands grope the wall. The expert speed at which she finds the latch to slide the laundry chute open into a dark pipe, straight to the underworld, makes me think she's done this before. Many times.

"At the bottom we'll probably find ourselves in the laundry room, so we have to move quickly before we're spotted." Up she clambers over the rim before she salutes me. "Come a moment after me, got it?"

Then she drops, silently, almost like falling to her death. I watch her body disappear and blacken as her shadows merge with the darkness.

I sure hope there's actual laundry at the bottom to cushion the fall. Taking a deep breath, I climb up, wonder why my life has become this way, and then drop. Air whooshes around me. A rush wells in my chest.

I have to suppress a long " _whee!"_ that threatens to erupt from my grinning mouth. This feeling – of falling to my freedom, tastes so sweet.

Then the chute curves. I let out a yelp in surprise as it angles left and my side hits the wall. Suddenly I'm spat out into a huge wad of unwashed sheets, and the smell – oh, the smell! I don't want to know what people have been doing in these bedsheets.

Frightened, I sit up. Yep, in a laundry basket, in the hotel's washing room. It's noisy, so loud as the machines churn and spin and lather and wash, it's a wonder how I didn't hear it from even the penthouse. Dryers shiver as they rotate, and it fills the air with steam and the scent of fresh linens.

"Quickly, quickly!" Zelda grabs my hand and hoists me out of Bedsheet Jungle. "I heard voices!"

Just as I detangle my feet from duvet covers, does the door to the right clamber open. Zelda shoves me behind the huge basket in time to hear someone humming and footsteps clacking against the linoleum floor. Shuffles, sighs, then the door closes behind them.

"Must be cleaning staff. We should go before we're spotted," Zelda murmurs, standing and staring out before motioning that I do the same. "We have to be careful. Aderyn might be down here."

She doesn't need to say how bad it would be to meet her.

We slip out of the laundry room and along the corridor, sticking out in our regular, civilian clothes compared to the liveries, and the people in those liveries give us odd looks as we pass.

"Lost?" one asks.

"Yeah, we were trying to get new bedsheets," Zelda shoots back quickly.

The maid rustles. "Please call us next time. What room?"

"101."

She nods. "I'll have them sent up straightaway."

We turn the final corner and move up the stairs. The hotel lobby comes into view, polished and pristine and as gold as a pyramid's interior. The spinning door, our exit, is in sight. All we need to do now is call a taxi to the rink. We might not be so late after all.

"Wow, I can't believe that worked!" I chirrup.

"Have some more faith in me, would you?" Zelda says with mock irritation. "I am good at escaping places."

"Not as good as you think."

I freeze. Zelda freezes.

I know that voice. _Why, why, why?_

I turn, agonisingly slowly. There, staring at me with blonde brows cutting into her alit, furious eyes, is Aderyn.

"This is it. This is the last straw." Her voice is low so as not to attract attention, but it's fierce enough to snag every single terrified fibre in my soul and yank. Hard. "If you don't tell me what's going on – where you are clearly sneaking off to – _right now,_ then I'm going to report you immediately. To Naomi."

* * *

 **A/N:** Ollo everyone! As Ginger kindly pointed out (because I had no idea, oop), it's The Rebound and the Rink's one year anniversary! Yay! Can you imagine I posted the first chapter a year ago?! And since then Gail hasn't learnt squat? It's an absolute farce I say!

In all seriousness, thanks for sticking around. I really, wholly appreciate it. I hope you enjoyed this one, and it answered some burning questions and raised a few new ones... that near-kiss with Sheng?! (How mad on a scale of one to a bazillion would y'all be if I gave him the first kiss hahahahah?) What about Silas? Cami? Jasper's elimination? And Aderyn catching them on the escape...?! This one was massively challenging for me to write... but I think it paid off in the end. :D

Big thanks to **OnlyTruePotterhead** and **Michelle the Editor** for Nathaniel and Jasper! I do feel bad for the former's rather quiet elimination, but then I remembered that just like in the original series, I'm not obligated to write every single one. At least both of them were easy, mutual breaks than anything dramatic. Great characters (and definitely bizarre, in Jasper's case), and I had a blast writing them, so thank you both.

Thanks for reading, and here's to another year of great chapters!

~ GWA

NTT: "There's so much at stake and you cruise in like everything's fine. You could have jeopardised the whole match!"


	29. Thin Ice

"I-I can explain!"

Nope. No, I can't.

Aderyn crosses her arms. "I'm waiting."

"Shit," Zelda says without a care.

"Well, you see—" I wince. "It's kind of complicated—"

"Un-complicate it. I can wait."

But _we_ can't. We're already cutting it fine, since I decided to have a heart-to-heart with Silas. Stall for any longer and by the time we get there the match will be over. I take Aderyn by the arm and say, "I'll explain on the way."

"No." She digs her low heels into rug, forcing me to jerk back. "I'm not going anywhere until you explain what's going on!"

"We don't have time!"

"Make time!" She snatches her arm back. "Or I'll go to Naomi!"

Letting out an aggravated sigh, I push Aderyn into the hotel lobby toilets. Thankfully it's unoccupied – Zelda kicks in every stall and locks the restroom door to make sure.

"What's so important that you have to leave immediately? What's with all this secrecy?" Aderyn demands. "Tell me."

There's not even enough time to think of a good lie. So, taking a deep breath and glancing at Zelda for her support, I tell Aderyn everything: auditioning for the hockey team, becoming an All-Star, the games and players and Bellona and the tournament here. The tournament we should be at. To her credit, Aderyn listens intently.

"This is absolutely nuts," she whispers at the end, shaking her head like she can't comprehend a thing. She's pulled off her uniform bonnet to run a hand through her hair. "You're— this whole time, on a hockey team?" She actually _Googles_ the second ladies All-Stars' team to make sure. There are no pictures of us, but our fake names are there. Susanetta and Linkle Vivas.

Zelda restlessly taps her foot. "Okay, so now that you know, can we _please_ go? The match will start soon and Gail needs to be there!"

"I—" Aderyn's frown turns wary. "This sounds dangerous. I really should tell Naomi and His Majesty about this. If you're caught… I can't protect you."

"I'm not asking you to protect me," I say forcefully.

"No, but I'm morally obligated to."

"Please." This time, I force myself to look into her eyes. They stare back, the blue a gentle swirl of conflicted feelings. And pity. So much pity. "Please, please, please. Naomi's a stickler for this, and Roy… if he found out, I wouldn't be allowed to leave the palace ever again."

She ponders for a moment. Quietly, she says, "He's only concerned with your safety. We all are."

"There's a difference between being safe and being trapped." My shoulders bunch. "I'm not sure Roy knows the difference."

I'm certain he doesn't.

"Please." This last one comes out of my mouth in a desperate, quiet whisper. "Please let me go and play, Aderyn."

Aderyn's mouth hardens to a line. Then she sighs.

"Okay. But I'm coming with you."

It's good enough. We speed out of the hotel and onto the taxi rank. With our hair shrouded by wigs and our make-up thick with layers, we look like anyone else on the streets of San Francisco, hailing a yellow cab that melds into the neon lights. The three of us pile into the back as Zelda calls, "To the Francisco Ice Rink, as fast as possible."

The city is a blur. Say what I will about San Francisco drivers, they're just as crazy as LA ones, as turns hit us with maximum G-force. Aderyn takes a moment to remove her apron to make her liveries less obvious, but relents to contemplative silence as she sits back and watches the streets as we zoom through them. I worry she might change her mind, call Naomi, but even if she did there's nothing that can be done immediately. We're on the way to the rink. The pieces are in motion, and it's too late to stop us now.

When the cab pulls up to the rink, Zelda throws her change at the driver and we clamber out. I'm arrested for a moment, so used to the derelict image of Glendale Ice Rink that seeing this monstrosity of a building with an entrance at every yard is jarring. Dome-shaped, the spotlights that ring the complex are so strong they pierce the dark clouds that hang above. Advertisements plaster every available wall space. There's actually a line to get inside, but Zelda elbows past them all.

I think we'll have to beg the receptionist to let us in, but Bellona stands in wait in the lobby. At first I don't recognise her, but it's because she's not wearing her trademark purple, but rather a plain black blazer and pencil skirt. The pin in her hair is star-shaped.

Her whole body seems to hone when we approach her. Then I see the way her lips curl in disgust, and I know I'm about to get the verbal equivalent of being flung into the sun.

" _What time do you call this?"_ she hisses, marching us to a quieter corner as she does. "You're so damn late, the match is about to start!"

"We're sorry," Zelda says, and she does actually sound it. "We got caught up in traffic—"

"Why do you think we travel as a whole squad and get here _earlier_ than necessary? So things like this don't happen!" She lets out an aggravated sigh. "This is incredibly disappointing from both of you. We will have a discussion about this – later. Linkle, ask reception to take you to the box. Susanetta, follow me. Now."

I pass a little wave to Zelda and Aderyn. Adeyrn reaches out as I dash down the corridor behind Bellona, but Zelda holds her back. I'm not sure what will happen to them now, but if Zelda pulls her connections, maybe Aderyn can sit in the box with her. The place is more of a maze than a rink, but Bellona knows her way, and deposits me outside the changing rooms.

"This better not affect your play today, Vivas."

"O-Of course not, ma'am."

I don't miss the way her eyes narrow as she leaves.

Inside, the changing room is chaos. Jerseys fly everywhere. Shin-pads bash against one another. Lockers bang and cries bleat.

"So Baby Su did decide to show up!"

Janet cheers from the other side. Claps – of the most sarcastic persuasion – sound out as I go red from tip to toe.

"Sorry, everyone…"

"You ought to be." Felice makes her way towards me, shaking her head. The disappointment is so palpable I could peel it away from her face. "This is our first match. You missed our team meeting!"

I have nothing to say to that. Without Zelda, or even Aderyn, I feel terribly alone.

"There's so much at stake and you cruise in like everything's fine. You could have jeopardised the whole match!"

"Forward sub is right here," calls Janet, gesticulating towards Madison by her right. "Just saying!"

Felice ignores her. "Make sure this doesn't cost us the match, Vivas." She makes another grunt of disapproval before returning to her locker space.

Immediately Rose comes to my side. She's already geared up in full shin-pads and helmet, masking but not entirely hiding the sympathy on her face. "Don't worry, you didn't miss much."

Beverly appears next. She, too, is already dressed head to toe in her hockey uniform, and gently touches my shoulder in solidarity. "It was mostly a reminder of the strategy we came up with last week and of a few technical manoeuvres that Bellona wants us to nail. Rebounds especially."

"I can do that." Even though my last training session with rebounds didn't… go so well. "Anything else?"

"The atmosphere is wild out there," Rose whispers, as if the walls have ears. "The opponent's manager Marco de Lucas introduced us all to the crowd and they went crazy. Felice was introduced to the opponent's captain but apparently she was horrible. That's why Felice is, like, a thousand per cent more determined to destroy them now."

Beverly nods. "Don't mind her. She's under a lot of pressure."

 _That's supposed to make me feel better about being yelled at in front of everyone?_ I think, but my mouth glues itself shut. Of all of us, Beverly seems most friendly with Felice. Somehow.

I change as fast as a lightning strike, and soon all of us are on the rink, warming up. The first thing I notice is the ice looks different – _feels_ different. I give it my utmost respect and pleading for the match to go well today, and I know the wrongness is because I'm not used to the atmosphere, but it's like my legs are used to hitting marble, but instead find stone.

Second is the, oh, you know… ginormous crowd beyond the walls. Rose was not exaggerating.

How can our little friendly match pull such a large body of people through the door? The stadium is not packed, not by a long shot, but there are enough people to fill the first tier of seats to make me think the San Fran Rink must be making huge bank tonight. If only Glendale had the same enthusiasm. Cheers and screaming raze the air, popping my hopes for a silent match of focus. The San Franciscan Ferrets – the _first_ team, are one of the most accomplished teams in Illéa. It's no wonder their supporters come out in droves, even for the second team.

The Ferrets enter the ice on the other side of the rink. Immediately my heart beats against my ribcage – they're all _so huge._ Like twenty Felices, and not a single variation in body shape to be seen. The opposing defenceman comes to the halfway line, close to me, and the difference is immediate. I'm like the little Schnauzer against a great big Rottweiler.

Gulp.

Bellona hops onto the ice not long after, and we huddle around her.

"Remember our training. The Ferrets are more experienced, yes, but we have an advantage: they don't know us or how we operate. Torres, man the lines. Remember everyone looks to you for direction. Lamb, keep that goal airtight. Forwards," she eyes me, "keep on their ass." She punches a fist forwards. "Sticks in."

Mine wobbles, but it's there.

"Train as a team," Bellona recites. "Play as a team. Think as a team."

"Train as a team. Play as a team. Think as a team."

"When all else fails, we rely on our sisters to lead us to victory."

"When all else fails, we rely on our sisters to lead us to victory."

"All-Stars!"

" _All-Stars!"_ we cry, and the little whoop invigorates me.

"Get it done, ladies."

And with that, Bellona skates to the side. To the box, where Zelda and Aderyn are waving and giving me the thumbs up. I give them a little wave back, if only to sedate my nerves, which as we line up our positions, sky-rocket into my brain.

 _Chill, Gail_. I can do this.

I have to do this, if only to prove to Aderyn that I can.

"Begin!" the linesman calls.

Everything explodes at once. This isn't like facing our own team in a split game – we have the full-force of the All-Stars on our side, but also the steamrolling power of the Ferrets against us. At one point the puck bounces from toe to toe so fast I lose track. The Ferrets never let up, their defences solid, but we don't let them take advantage of our team.

"Su!"

Felice shoots the puck my way. I catch it, dancing along the wall to avoid a collision and powering deep into enemy territory. It's like a jungle, except the Ferrets are giant tree trunks. That move. And also want to kill me.

From my left the defence bullets towards me and I freak, the puck twirling free right into the goaltender's waiting toe. "No!" I curse, but too late, they've already moved on, leaving me a dust pile in the wind. The crowd screams.

They score.

"Get it together!" Felice yells when we reset.

I hate that she's right. People behind the walls whoop, yell, cheer and boo. It's hard to know what to think when everything and everyone is so overwhelming. It's like the game has sped up tenfold now that we're playing against actual people instead of ourselves.

The game begins again, and I force myself to focus, laser-sharp attention attached to the puck as it skips from toe to toe, from Bev to Rose to Madison to Felice. I get the puck again, and my chance to score opens up like a yawn. _There's no one marking,_ I think. I take a shot.

It bounces off the goaltender, dancing right. _A rebound._ I shoot forwards, readying to take another hit, another shot. A Ferret squeezes past, surprising me from the left, and runs away with the puck again. With another victory.

By the time the first period is up, I'm exhausted, sleepy, ready to bury my head in the sand. Or ice. Whichever ends my life quicker.

"You were overwhelmed," says Rose as we take a quick breather on the sides. She can't devour her water bottle fast enough for all the shots she had to block. She might actually eat the bottle. "I don't blame you. It was… a daze."

"But _you_ didn't freak out like five times and mess everything up."

"I let in a few goals," Rose notes, with a frown. "They're two up on us now."

Bev ushers us forward. A group meeting. Bellona rounds us all together.

"A rocky start," she says with an unimpressed tone. "Defence, what were those blocks? Blumenthal, you're letting your opponents pass you too many times. Breath, focus."

Beverly gulps. "Of course."

"Lamb, keep it up. They've a strong offence, like we predicted, and you're doing well to hold them off." Then she sighs and looks at me. "Vivas, you need to pull your socks up and play like I know you can."

Is that… positive reinforcement?

"I-I'm trying."

"I don't want feeble _trying,"_ Bellona snaps. "I want _doing._ You're letting your opponent's size get to you."

"B-But ma'am, they're huge!"

"Of course they are. We play ice hockey. Size is an advantage." Her gaze hardens. "But it is not a _must_. You're fast – faster than any of them, and that's where your skills lie, but hesitating is costing you."

I take the words. _Go fast,_ I think. I can do that.

"I will."

"Good. The rest of you, keep it up. Keep on your toes, stick to our strategies. They're a resilient team but have all the flaws we noted when watching their previous games. Use that."

She gives me a particularly hard push when I get back onto the rink. I'm not sure I feel entirely reinvigorated – Bellona's speech at once punishment as it is encouragement, but I know I can't let the Ferrets win. As they pile back onto the ice too, they all take their moments to look directly at me. _They must think I'm the weak link._ But I let them underestimate me.

The whistle goes again, and this time our team picks up the slack. _Formation, strategy._ I barely even think as I execute manoeuvre after manoeuvre, and when the puck lands in their goal by my hand, I finally start to feel that burn in my heart. _We can win, we can win._ The scores start to even and the crowd starts to go anxiously quiet as we approach a tie.

By the second break, we're practically even, with one short goal that separates us. I'm giddy as I take my water and roll my shoulders and hands – I don't want to inflate my expectations but we're so close, so close I can taste victory as much as I can the sparks of ice dust that fly from the rink.

During our second meeting, Zelda and Aderyn's heads pop around the wall.

"Linkle?" Bellona says. "We're in the middle of—"

"Sorry, sorry, I just— I had an idea." She approaches with Aderyn on her heels like a lost puppy. "For something we might be able to pull off to secure a victory."

She goes on to point out a terrible flaw in their team set-up, a giant gap that needs filling like a hollow tooth. Then she explains that the gap in their formation is large enough to take advantage of, if we're quick enough to do it.

All eyes turn to me.

"Oh."

"You have that window of opportunity to score, Su," says Zelda, using her finger to tap rapidly on her crudely-drawn diagram. "Their defence is slow on the pickup when we take possession. I've seen them linger on one side for so long it's like they're begging you to score. All the rest of the team have to do is get you the puck."

"I'd have to cross more than half of the rink."

"Aside from the goaltender, it'll be undefended."

"I think it can work," says Bellona. "We are close to tying but we need to push it over the line before it becomes penalties." She looks at Beverly and Felice. "Think you two can work together to take possession when they're close to our crease?"

They exchange a glance and grin. "I think we can easily manage that," says Felice. "Bev's a good shot."

"The best," Bev pipes delightedly.

"I'll pass to Vivas."

For the first time Felice doesn't look down on me. Her eyes only say, _you got this._

Or maybe it's _you better have got this._

I nod once. Already my stomach is roiling. It's a big job, this strategy we have, but if it secures us the win…

Back on the rink, we take our positions.

"Ya' think lil' titch here will score on more than luck?" says the opponent's centre, the horrible one Rose was talking about, who skates around me in a taunting circle before making her way to her place.

The opponent's right defence laughs, loud enough that I can hear it, several paces away.

My cheeks burn. "That's not very nice!" I yell, but it's consumed by a roar of the crowd at the appearance of the linesman. My eyes drift and snag on the All-Stars box. Amongst the people I don't recognise, Zelda and Aderyn have their heads together, Zelda's mouth moving animatedly. Aderyn is stony-faced and silent, her eyes on the rink.

I have no idea what to think about that until her eyes meet mine. A small smile emerges across her lips, and she gives a thumbs-up.

I grin. I may not be the best player ever – or even here, on this rink or on my team, but I'm enjoying it so much. I hope, I desperately hope, she sees that.

The whistle goes and so do my legs, pumping them into motion. The puck skitters this way and that, and I track it with my eyes. When they have the puck in their possession I tear after their players, unrelenting like a dire storm, and when the puck is ours, I do my best to skid, dive, meander like a shooting star and plant the puck in their goal. I successfully blot out the noise of the crowd so that it's nothing more than the city's din, buzzing in the distance.

Time is almost up. We're tied. Better than a straight loss, but penalties are so stressful and I can't imagine relying on them alone, so I push myself as hard as my body will go to chase the puck. They dive into our half, pass between them.

Beverly cuts across so smoothly they have to process the moment – hesitate, before she shoots to Felice. Zelda was right, half the rink is wide open. Ripe for the taking.

"Go, Su, go!"

She launches the puck at me.

It lands in my toe. I pivot, ice dust whipping up in a vortex, and skate. _Go Gail, go._ Quicker than they anticipate I'm in their zone. Shoot.

The puck goes through the tender's legs. It's a goal.

"Yay!" I scream, as the crowd mirrors my excitement. Boos erupt as well, but that's okay, I can hardly care.

Time continues, but it's too late. Not long after the reset, the linesman calls time. The audience erupts. We did. We won.

" _You did it!"_ Rose crashes into me with a bear hug. I'm laughing so hard tears are streaming down my cheeks, ruining my foundation. " _That was so awesome!"_

The rest of the team piles in for one big group hug.

"Holy shit, that was _amazing!"_

"We did it! We won!"

" _We kicked ass out there!"_

I'm sweaty and breathless and my heart is set to burst, but as I'm squished in a fuzzy warmth my emotions flip entirely over in the space of a moment.

 _I belong._

The Ferrets reluctantly skate around to shake hands. The centre gives me a particularly dirty look as her meaty hand encases mine, gripping so tightly I fear she's trying to sabotage my future matches. But they go wordlessly back to their own manager, tail between their legs, as I soak in the glorious feeling of our win. Nothing can beat this moment. I will remember this for the rest of my life.

We skate back to the lockers, high on victory. No one can stop talking, gabbling, giddy and thrilled and flushed with joy. Least of all me, who can't stop replaying that last manoeuvre in my head. Or on my mouth as it motors through the emotions I felt in those intense seconds.

"Ladies."

Bellona's voice calls our attention immediately. Half in my gear, upper half only in a sweat-ridden tank top, I turn. Her face is cool as she stands like a soldier with her back to the shut door.

Then she smiles.

"Well done."

"Yeah!" Janet yells. "We rock!"

We laugh and clap and Bellona nods her head.

"That was quite the turnaround from our wayward beginnings. You all played excellently. Blumenthal, Torres, and Vivas, congratulations on succeeding that final shot. That clinched us certain victory, and you should be proud of yourselves."

Oh. I definitely am. I stand straighter, beam larger. For a moment I'm so high on celebration that I consider even telling Roy – like I would when I'd do anything good – but the thought dies like a pierced balloon.

I'll never be able to share this joy with him. With anyone but the people here.

Bellona continues to talk but the sadness has already filled the nooks of my happiness. This is one match, but of how many? How many times will I have to keep this all to myself? How many times will Roy and my family and friends miss what I consider hugely important victories in my life?

"Vivas," she then cuts across suddenly, snapping my thoughts. "I'd like to speak with you after you're done."

"Okay," I say. She's probably still angry that I appeared late, but I think this match has changed her tune.

Not shortly after I shower, Zelda and Aderyn find me packing my things in the locker room. Zelda wraps her arm around my neck and pulls me into a sudden hug.

"You star! You did it! You actually did it!"

"Was there ever any doubt?"

"Er, yes. A helluva lot of doubt!" Zelda cackles at my face. "But you pulled it off. Oh, that was so awesome!"

"It was," says Aderyn quietly. "Even though I had no idea what was going on."

Zelda sighs. "I explained the rules."

"Doesn't mean I retained them."

"Great work today, Su!" Rose comes up from behind and gives me another hug. I return with a pat on her arms. She steps back. "Oh, hello! Are you a friend of Su and Linkle?"

Her eyes are on Aderyn. Aderyn begins, "Yes, my name is Ad—"

"ADDIE," Zelda screeches, drawing the eyes of everyone else here. "Yes. This is Addie, our… er, _elder sister._ Adopted. Obviously."

"Elder sister?" Rose says.

" _Elder sister?"_ Aderyn echoes, but with an even more bewildered tone.

"Yes. Her. You. Elder sister." Zelda laughs and pats Aderyn on the shoulder. "Of course, you're the one that took us here, aren't you?"

Aderyn blinks and the confusion dissipates. "Yes. That was I. Me. Myself. I did that. I took them there— here."

I want to bang my head against the wall.

"I didn't even know you had another sister," says Rose. "It's nice to meet you, Addie. I'm Rose! I'm the goaltender."

They shake hands.

"You played very well today," says Aderyn.

"Thank you! Not as well as Su." She takes my hand. "You really did great today! I'm so proud of you!"

My heart melts. "You did brilliantly too."

Once Rose goes off to entertain Janet, Aderyn's smile drops and she glares at us both. " _Elder sister?"_

"We're adopted sisters," says Zelda, pointing to herself and me, as if that's going to explain anything. "It makes sense. Just go with it."

It seems to bring back the old argument. How can she be an accessory to all this? Aderyn's eyes cloud and she turns away.

"We should get going."

"Bellona wanted to talk to me."

At this, Zelda tenses. "About being late? She gave me the same lecture before the match started."

"I'll be fine," I say brightly. "We just won! How mean can she be?"

It doesn't lessen Zelda's obvious anxiety.

"All right. We'll wait outside." She takes Aderyn's arm. "Come on."

Aderyn fixes me an odd look as she leaves. It's like, before this night began, she thought me mischievous, stubborn, a little unruly, but now it's a pensive expression that says nothing is as it seems. I'm different than what she thought, and she may never look at me the same way again. We may never have the same relationship again.

I don't know what I'm going to do about it. I didn't want to jeopardise Aderyn's job by sharing this secret with her, but it's out there now, and there's no way I can take it back.

Glumly I take my stuff, say my goodbyes, and head down the corridor. There's a small waiting area through the doors, empty save for Bellona, who occupies one of the lone blue couches and stares stiffly out the window. No trace of our victory lingers. It's almost like we lost.

 _Something is wrong._

I knock timidly and enter at her beckoning. "Vivas," she greets. "Let's chat."

I sit on the edge of the sofa opposite. The bright lights of the room are the opposite of homely, of cosy, and it raises the hair on my neck. Bellona sits on the edge, and that immediately makes _me_ on edge. Her unfeeling but unyielding expression tells me nothing.

"What's wrong, ma'am?"

"You were late today."

"Yes," I admit. "I-I'm sorry—"

"That doesn't cut it." I flinch at her sharp tone. "What you did today nearly jeopardised the team. It was evident you weren't playing your best in the first period. If you'd had time to adjust to the atmosphere you may not have had this problem."

"I know, I know." I bow my head. "It won't happen again."

"No, it won't." She sits up straighter. "Because effective immediately, I'm taking you off the active team."

She may as well have punched a hand straight through my chest, ripped out my heart, spat on it, thrown it into a fire, and then devoured the ashes. Breath enters my lungs in a gasp so sharp I taste the stale air around me.

Too shocked to anything, Bellona takes a moment. Her eyes dart back and forth between my eyes, like she can't decide where to settle.

"You must learn discipline. I cannot have a player who waltzes in whenever she likes. This tardiness will not stand."

"But… but what about today? I did the winning goal."

Her face darkens. "We won in a combined effort between you and the rest of the team. Don't dare to assume your contribution was the only thing that won it today."

I'm silent. Tears are threatening to spill, rising up through my throat with throbbing pain.

"I've reprimanded your sister for her tardiness as well. However, her absence is not as keenly felt as yours." She lifts her chin. "You're on thin ice, Vivas. Until you have understood that I will not tolerate anything that could negatively impact this team, you will attend the training sessions and nothing more. Understand?"

My head droops. _I can't cry, I won't. Promise me you won't, Gail._

"I-I understand."

"Good. Let this be a lesson." She stands. "I expect you're making your own way home, so I want to see you at our next training sessions sharp and early. I want to see you do everything to the best of your ability. I want to see you play, Susanetta. Not this nonsense earlier."

Then she breezes out of the room, like she hasn't just broken my heart.

Without being able to help myself, I break my promise.

I cry.

* * *

 **A/N:** Poor Gail! It seems the repercussions for her double life are catching up to her... Hope you enjoyed the chapter, folks!

As always, please let me know your thoughts. How will Gail cope knowing she's been benched? What will happen now that Aderyn knows The Secret? No Selected boys in this one, but I promise, there's some spicy Selected content coming, huehuehue...

Feel I should note, with my limited knowledge of sport, I actually have no idea what the protocol is for tournament matches, so I sort of made up my own thing. Let's all just pretend this is exactly what happens in the future, m'kay?

Thanks for reading, buds.

~ GWA

NTT: "Is Soren a big donut? True or true?"


	30. One Step Forwards, Two Steps Back

I sit in the side room alone, crying for so long that I think I might've dreamt the entire thing. The chocolate festival, dragging Aderyn along, playing the hockey match and clenching victory in my tiny hands.

Then being barred from playing another game. Tears rest on my eyelids, almost desperate not to fall. Desperate not to process this happening at all.

 _All this for being late._

I know I can't stay here forever, but the idea of going out there, surrounded by people who could potentially recognise me, and then the emotions on my face… I don't want a stranger's pity. I don't even want the team's pity, if any of them are still here.

So I wipe my face and duck my head as I sprint out of the stadium amongst crowds. Many people are leaving now, fanning out into the parking lot and avoiding the occupied vehicles that queue to leave the complex grounds. I find Zelda and Aderyn at the taxi rank, waiting in a substantial line for the yellow cars that dot the sidewalk, and slide in next to them.

"Finally! I thought we'd have to—" Zelda catches my expression. "Whoa. What's wrong?"

"Gail?" Aderyn whispers, smoothing a hand on my shoulder. The touch soothes but it's like putting Vaseline on a wound – a release from the pain, not the damage.

I quietly explain what happened. Zelda is so shocked she physically flinches as the words leave my mouth.

"You can't be serious. Bellona can't be serious. She can't—" Her fingers tangle in her blond wig. "You scored the winning goal! She can't take you out for being late!"

"Well, she did."

Aderyn puffs up her chest. "I'll go back and change her mind—"

"What? No!" I snatch Aderyn's sleeves before she can escape and embarrass me further. "This— she's not the type of person who would change her mind like that."

"She hasn't met me," she says. "I'm your elder sister, aren't I? I'm supposed to stick up for you."

"Shit, I can't believe I'm saying this, but Aderyn, don't." Zelda's hurt is evident in her own gaze. "She's manager. Her word goes. She gave me a lecture about tardiness in the box, but I didn't think— didn't think she was gonna' do this to you, G. I'm sorry."

 _I'm sorry_ doesn't bring back my place on the team. Just when I was starting to feel like one of them, like I belonged, and Bellona rips it away. The others will depart to matches across the province, and I'll be left in Los Angeles, repeating my one victory over and over again in my head.

A taxi picks us up and silently delivers us back to the hotel. In the bathrooms, we wash off our make-up and hide our disguises, and Aderyn guides us back to the rooms. By that point my tears have pretty much dried, giving way to a hollow pit in my stomach. To be filled with what? Bitterness? Resentment? Anger? At this point, all I feel like is a failure. That I've done this to myself. That I deserve it.

In the elevator to our floor, Aderyn fixes her bonnet. "Leave the guards to me."

Sure enough, Naomi's mouth drops open when we approach.

"What— you— you were inside!" she splutters.

Aderyn glares down the bridge of her nose at us. "These two were having fun with the laundry chute."

"It _was_ fun," Zelda protests.

Naomi's gaze lands on me, but she clucks her tongue and opens the door for us. The room is ablaze with a lit fireplace in the corner. The Selected, Silas, Kajika, Jasper, Parker and Sheng, play cards on the coffee table. Sheng rockets to stand at the sight of me.

"Oh," Silas begins, eyebrows raising on his forehead, "that explains why neither of you responded when we knocked."

"They went down the laundry chute for fun," Aderyn reiterates, sending us another glare that, for some reason, makes me want to laugh, despite everything. Silas opens his mouth, but Aderyn cuts across. "And if any of you even think about doing it, I will report you to the queen herself for unprofessionalism and misbehaviour."

Silas' mouth promptly shuts.

Sheng's eyes meet mine. If there's anyone else here who can read me like the back of a cereal box, it's him, and his head tilts just so slightly. _What's wrong?_ I shake my head. It's none of his business – it will never be his business.

" _It was awesome, do it,"_ Zelda whispers to Silas before she shuts the door on them in my room.

I approach the window that overlooks the cityscape. San Francisco broadens around me, the lights of the skyscrapers and buildings beyond pocking the darkness that swathes the view. It gave me hope before, looking out like this into the thrilling beyond, but now it's nothing but dread, despair.

"Chin up," says Aderyn, clasping her hands together. "It's not forever, the barring. It's only until you can prove you can be on time."

"That's only part of the problem. I…" I rub the back of my neck. "How can I ever be spontaneous and genuine and not worried about having to escape royal palaces and vigilant security details if I'm only faking at being Susanetta Vivas?"

The words pour of me from some hidden crook of my heart. I've always known Susanetta can do things Gail can't and Gail can do things Susanetta can't, but keeping them separate – keeping them isolated – is what's causing this hurt. This divide inside me like a chasm, with only a flimsy bit of rope to attach the two.

"Whoa, back up," Zelda says. "You're not suggesting… a grand reveal, are you?"

"No! No." It would never work. Susanetta will never merge with Gail. "But… it's just… hard. The only reason we managed to go to today's game is because Cami happened to have an architecture talk in the same city. That's not going to happen every time. We got lucky."

Zelda braces her hands behind her. "I mean— I figured we could work it out as we go. You're the princess. You could make up that you want to go on a date or something—"

"And if the Selection finishes before the tournament does?"

"Don't shoot the devil's advocate," Zelda says with a sheepish expression. "I'm not trying to dogpile you. Just help."

"But Gail…" Aderyn begins, "how long did you think you could keep it up before there were repercussions like today?"

I wish Aderyn hadn't spoken, because the question forces me to look inside myself, to see how long I've been deceiving my brain into thinking this whole hockey thing would work out in the end.

I sigh and sink into the armchair. "I… I don't know."

"It's just…" she pauses meaningfully, "I know you have it much worse than I do, but I don't know how long I can keep this a secret. What if I'm put in a position where I have to tell them about this? What if the captain, or the king or queen asks me?" She holds herself again. "Have you ever asked them?"

"Asked them what?"

"If you could join a hockey team?"

I look at her with alarm. "Are you crazy?" I don't mean to sound so snappish but it's so jarring to even think that. "Roy barely lets me leave the palace as it is. You think he'd let me join a hockey team?"

"All I know is that you won't be able to keep this up forever," she says, driving a deep wedge in my heart. "Sooner or later, someone will find out. Whether that be someone who can keep the secret… or someone who can't."

* * *

The journey home is quiet and unassuming. I keep to myself, earphones in, drowning out the world as I replay the match in my head with a dark-tinted lens. The victory, the high of yesterday, is tainted with my barring, and I'll never be able to feel the same joy I did, even in nostalgia.

We get home and for the day I don't do anything. If anyone notices my sullen mood, they don't comment or even try to pick me up from it, and I'm left to my own thoughts until the next morning. The sun barely crests over the horizon when a short, curt knock interrupts the bleary, dreamless sleep.

"Who… who is it?" I croak.

"It's Yamato Watanabe, Your Highness. We were meant to have the presentation meeting this morning, remember?"

Oh. Right. The presentation. My whole double life has been upended but nothing has changed here, at the palace, during the Selection. Jasper left sometime yesterday after saying his goodbyes, and that was about the only thing different from any other normal day.

After yesterday, it all seems so… mundane. Even though I know my circumstances are too exceptional to be mundane.

"Sorry, I… I forgot," I call.

There's quiet for a moment. "Well, please make your way to the Amendment Drawing Room promptly. Everyone else is waiting. We need to practice."

A bitter laugh escapes me. Maybe Susanetta and I do have more in common than I thought.

I summon Aderyn to bring me a small breakfast and help me dress. Aderyn is entirely stoic as she brushes her hair, as if knowing one wrong word can tip me into tears again, and I appreciate that she's giving me time to process. When I leave for the Amendment Drawing Room, I'm as presentable as can be.

I go inside without waiting to knock, enveloped in the delicate blue and cream shades of the furniture and curtains. The boys have called for breakfast snacks already – toast racks surrounded by every pot of jam, vibrant fruits that glisten in the sweet morning sun, croissants with warm cheese and generous slices of ham, the thick aroma of coffee that chases away my sleepy head. Politely the boys stand to attention.

"The princess arrives!" Avian calls, grinning from ear to ear. "I saved you some blueberry jam. You're welcome."

"Oh, I already ate, but thank you."

He shrugs. "More for me." He sits and proceeds to dump the rest of the dark blue jelly on his toast.

Soren's plate is empty save a few crumbs, so he scooches over so I can join him and Avian on the sofa. Yamato and Elliot are in separate armchairs opposite us, pretending like the other is totally invisible. I see nothing changed in my brief absence.

"Your Highness," Elliot greets, smiling gently. "How are you?"

"I'm fine," I say. Sleep didn't give me total respite from the restless melancholy, but it alleviated it somewhat. "Ready to knock this presentation out of the park."

He nods once. I think he wants to do the same, but admitting to it would be admitting that he wants to work with Yamato. Which he doesn't.

"Let's go over everyone's talking points," says Yamato, oblivious to the moment. There's not even a crumb on his plate, so he mustn't have eaten anything. "As I'm doing the introduction, I'll start." He holds his notes as he reads from the bullet points. "The Selections of the past have been fuelled by political motivations, many of which because of the political tensions and civil unrest of the time. Though this may not be the case today, there are many examples where Selections are used as tools to not only marry royals to highly popular candidates, but also to feed the positive image of the royal family."

Yamato continues, and I increasingly despair. He's written _so much._ Like, a scholar amount. Like Soren's essays for JJ amount. Glancing at Avian's notes, I can see he doesn't have anywhere close to Yamato's level. Even I'm just winging it from what I know, and it doesn't compare.

After maybe three minutes of the turmoil of Damon Illéa's Selection described in minute detail, Yamato finishes.

"Way too long," Soren says bluntly as he sips from a glass of orange juice.

"It sets the tone for the presentation."

"Our presentation is five minutes maximum," Elliot says. "The only tone it sets is that it's long-winded."

I don't think Elliot said it any more bluntly than Soren's comment, but somehow it makes my chin want to fold into my neck, then my brain, then out of existence entirely.

Yamato bristles, but his expression is chastened. "I can cut it down."

"Good."

"Let's hear yours next, then," Yamato says, turning his body to face Elliot. There's no amusement there. "You have Diantha."

Elliot shakes his head. "Avian should go next. He has Clarkson's. That's next chronologically."

"No. If you were listening, Diantha's Selection follows nicely from my point about polarising royals."

"I _was_ listening," says Elliot, voice level with irritation. "Otherwise you'd be distracted by my drawing, wouldn't you?"

"I'll just go next!" Avian says, chipper tone forced. "We can, er, just see how mine goes for now. Please."

Yamato hesitates, but nods his head to continue. Avian powers on, stumbling through his points, but my eyes are focused on Yamato and Elliot, and the tension that pronounces the muscle in their bodies. I swear a vein throbs in Elliot's neck.

"Too short," says Soren, after Avian is finished.

"You said that last meeting."

Soren pauses. "Still too short."

Avian lets out an aggravated sigh and runs a hand through his hair. "I don't know what else to talk about. Clarkson was a big douchewad. That's pretty much all there is to his history and character."

"I agree with Soren," says Yamato, coolness returning. "You have good points, but you need to elaborate on them more. Your running time was only forty-four seconds."

"Bro," Avian says, nonplussed, "you were counting?"

Yamato raises his phone from the table – I didn't see it behind the teapot. "Yes. This must be timed perfectly."

"There are five of us for a five-minute presentation," I say, hoping the chill in the room is from an errant breeze and definitely not any tension in our group. "That's a minute each. Yamato, if you want to run over a little, then Avian can work with the forty-five seconds."

"I like this idea," Avian says.

"I'm sorry, Your Highness," Yamato says, "but I disagree. We need to balance them out. A minute each works."

"It doesn't have to be exact though… right?"

"It should be. The queen, Mister Rudy, JJ and Lady Lilly Carter will be judging us. Something they will look for is the weighting of our presentation. If one of us hogs the spotlight, they will pick up on that."

 _Will they? Will they really?_ I don't think it's that deep, but I daren't say so to Yamato, whose wan expression doesn't quite hide the feverish determination that glows in his dark eyes.

Soren's lips roll. "Maybe we should take a break."

"Take a break?" Yamato says. "We've barely just begun—"

"I agree with Soren!" I pipe. Immediately an idea pops into my head – I still have to convince him of the greatness of ice hockey, right? Even if I can't play any more big league matches, I still love the sport and want to share it with him. "Let's play a game!"

"But we don't have time for—"

"I am the princess," I remind airily. It's meant to be a joke, but Yamato's mouth clamps shut. "Besides, it's good team-building! We need it so our presentation runs smoothly."

Yamato can't possibly want to agree, but he concedes as he sits back, so I say, "Let's play, is it true or is it not?"

"What game is that?" Avian says.

"I say a statement, and you say whether it's true or not. Simple enough, right?"

Avian snickers. "Is Soren a big donut? True or true?"

Elliot guffaws. "Aw, don't be mean… even though it's true."

Soren rolls his eyes, but there's the slight curve of his lips.

"Yes, you play like that, except with nicer questions. More fun ones!" I give Avian a pointed look. "Who wants to go first?"

"For real," Avian says, as he sits back and his eyes narrow. "I am handsome, true or false? I can take honesty. Go on."

"True, of course," I say warmly.

Elliot sighs. "True. You cut an imposing, manly figure. I just can't beat that."

"Shut up, Elliot."

Elliot laughs.

"If I say true, will you never call me a donut again?" asks Soren.

"On my word."

"Then true."

"Thanks, donut."

All eyes turn to Yamato. I think for a moment he'll say true just to get it over and done with, but he sits back, ponders on his answer. "False." It ejects into the room like a gunshot.

"Ouch."

Yamato shrugs. "You're not my type."

Avian nods. "I admire your brave words, Yamato, even though you're just lying to yourself because I'm everyone's type."

There's a glimmer of amusement in Yamato's gaze. "I thought you could take honesty?"

"I'll go next." Elliot grins. "My drawing skills are great."

"True," I say instantly. "I think that portrait of Cami you did was great!"

He goes red in the cheeks. "Thanks."

"False," says Avian, who sniffs indignantly. "You haven't drawn me yet, and therefore your skills cannot possibly be that good."

"I'll draw you right now." Elliot takes a pen and scribbles on a napkin. His 'portrait' of Avian is literally a potato with eyes.

Soren clears his throat as he looks at the picture. "Definitely false."

"Yep," says Avian, grimacing as Elliot laughs.

"True," says Yamato, in a surprising amount of brevity, though he doesn't look Elliot in the eyes as he says, "I would be insulted if your constant distractions weren't even worth it."

Elliot laughs – actually laughs. My heart grows in my chest. _I did this!_ If I can bring them together at the same time as making Yamato change his mind on ice hockey, I will have done more than I planned to do ever in a thousand million years.

"My turn! My turn!" I say gleefully. "Ice hockey is a great sport."

It's like the temperature drops.

Avian senses it – I know he does, by the way his eased body becomes taut like the strings of a nocked bow. Silence follows my statement and my happiness begins to fade.

"True, obviously," Elliot supplies, though his chuckle is forced. "Ice hockey is the best sport ever."

"True," Soren says, no explanation needed.

"Sure, I like ice hockey," follows Avian. His glance darts to me with increasing confusion, like, _why would you bring this up?_

I ignore him. "Yamato?"

Yamato is stiff. All that fun and laughter and brief moment of happiness is drained away into the gutters of stoicism. Hands on lap, with no less gusto, he says, "False."

"False? Why?" I say, before Elliot can jump in.

"It's not for me."

"But it's so wonderful! You play as a team, you get to skate, and you get to channel some competitive spirit into the game. It's kind of like ice skating, don't you think?"

"With respect, they are nothing alike."

"How?"

Yamato swallows. Whether he's just preparing to launch into a speech, or the topic has frazzled a few of his nerves, I'll never know.

"Ice skating requires finesse, discipline. Something that ice hockey lacks."

"That's not true," Elliot says. "Discipline is what makes ice hockey. Finesse, maybe we're _lacking_ there, as you say, but it's not like ice skating needs the same level of stamina or strength or strategy."

"When you can do a triple axel, I'll take your word for it."

"When _you_ can do a fake toe pull into a lateral pass, I'll eat my words myself."

"Is it my turn yet?" Soren asks.

But it's too late. Yamato blows a sigh.

"If you cannot accept that I have a different opinion than you, then you'll never make it in the world."

"I accept different opinions just fine. What I _don't_ like is blatant insults directed at me!"

Yamato stands. "I think this is enough for today." He gathers his stuff and makes towards the door. "Everyone keep working on your parts. There's no room for error. We'll meet again tomorrow, when Elliot has calmed down."

"Yeah, flounce out when I call you out on it! Go on!" Elliot jeers after him. Yamato doesn't take the bait and leaves, the door slamming behind him.

A silence so palpable wraps around me like a suffocating blanket. Oh heck. That is not how I planned that to go. At all.

So much for team-building.

Elliot's jaw clenches and relaxes in the space of a few seconds. "I-I'm sorry, everyone," he says quietly. "I don't… I'm not…"

"It's okay," I say, even though it's not, and this is probably going to affect our presentation.

"Shit, Your Highness, was asking that question really the best thing to do?" Avian asks, so openly and honestly that I can't even be mad that he's being so crass.

"I asked it because I wanted to see for myself. I never asked for what followed." I stand up, brushing non-existent crumbs off my dress. "I'm going to talk to him."

I have to chase him to catch up. Yamato isn't much taller or leaner than I am, but his strides sure do eat the carpet. I snatch his arm for him to stop, and he jerks to a halt. His face – totally impassive. Like the entire ordeal didn't even happen.

"What was that all about?"

"You asked for my opinion, and I gave it," he says.

"Yes, okay, but can't you see how much that hurt Elliot?"

"Hurt _Elliot?"_ he echoes with a dry laugh. "You mean like every time he's insulted my profession whenever I walk into the Men's Parlour?"

"He—" He wouldn't right? "He only started doing that because he was retaliating against you."

"No, I'm pretty sure he started it when he said ice skating was a _pansy_ sport in comparison to ice hockey." He twists his arm out of my grip. "And I frankly don't have the tolerance to deal with that. Not when ice skating means so much to me. And if that makes me look like I'm 'flouncing', then so be it."

"That's not right. Avian and Soren said you first said that ice hockey was a terrible sport."

"It is."

My head jerks back. "So you admit you said it?"

He rubs his temples. "Maybe I did, but then I left it buried. Meanwhile Elliot continues to get rankled about me and ice skating, bring it up at every opportunity."

I'm too winded to say anything. _A pansy sport?_ Would Elliot really say something so mean? Yamato takes this as a pause to breath nosily through his nose.

"It's fine, Your Highness. I… I'm sorry if it's been difficult to mediate between us. I don't mean to personally insult you, when I say I don't like ice hockey. I'm not going to stop you from enjoying it." He looks away. "I just don't have the energy to deal with him right now."

"You do realise how bad this looks though, right? For you and Elliot?"

He straightens. "I know. But I'm standing my ground. I think Elliot will want to do the same. I just want this presentation over."

His head dips in a dismissing nod and then he turns on his heels and leaves.

So not only does Yamato hate ice hockey, but now Elliot hates ice skating? The two conflicting opinions war and clash inside my brain, so much that a headache rises from the ashes, and I have to massage my forehead. It's clear that neither knew who started it, even though they'll both say it was the other, but now it's clear that it's built on pettiness and nothing more.

And that is fixable.

My goal has changed. I can get Yamato to enjoy ice hockey, and I can get Elliot to enjoy ice skating. If the two sides reconcile, then our presentation isn't hopelessly doomed to as much of a disaster as a meteor blasting into earth right now. My fists clench over my heart – I've got a plan, an inkling of an idea. There's a better way to solve crises than words.

So I will make a decree. The next time we meet for our group presentation, we're doing it on the rink.

* * *

"Come in, come in, gentlemen, Your Highness!"

That afternoon, Rudy and Romilda corral the Selected and I into the Great Room, transformed into an empty space, chairs pushed to the side and lacquered floor shining. I'm not sure what's up with the smug twinkle in Romilda's eye, or the self-satisfied smile that lingers on Rudy's face, but something about it makes me think this won't be an ordinary etiquette class.

Rudy waves, calling for silence. "Settle down, please."

"I hope you're all well-rested and excited to start this class, because we do have quite the fun surprise for you all!" Romilda claps her hands with such childish wonder it's like she inhabits a body of the wrong age. "I'm thrilled to announce that you, all eighteen of you, will be hosting our annual Christmas ball!"

There's a wave of shock and sullen mutters that passes over the room. I gasp, if only because the Christmas ball isn't just a neat evening do, it's _the_ event of the year. The only time the entire palace prepares for a ball so grand, a dance so beautiful, a night of such vibrant festivities, that giving it to the Selected seems like handing them each a wailing child and expecting them to know exactly what to do with it.

This sentiment is shared amongst a good number of them. Parker goes positively pale. " _We_ have to organise a ball?"

"Indeed," Rudy says, his self-satisfaction only widening his grin. "This is a true test of your ability to organise, to come together, and to create something. The Christmas ball is an annual tradition here at the palace, falling on Christmas eve. It is often attended by many high-profile visitors and celebrities. The decorations must be tasteful, the music sublime, the food delicious, and all must complement the highlight of the evening, the Christmas waltz, a dance practiced and performed by a certain group of attendees."

I love the Christmas waltz, simply for the pomp of it all. Last year I danced with one of the new male guards, who had allegedly won a lucky pot to dance with me, and the poor fellow stumbled out after the last note aired to vomit on the grass outside because all the twists and turns made him dizzy with nerves. Meanwhile it made me feel like I was flying.

I glance to my lefts and rights. I guess this year it won't be a guard, or Roy, as it was the year before that. One of these boys will get to dance with me.

As if picking up on my thoughts, Romilda claps. "The Christmas waltz is a continuous dance with no partner changes. As such, one of you lucky gents will have the opportunity to dance with Her Highness."

"However," Rudy paces down from the group. "We can only permit the best dancer to pair with Her Highness. So in these classes we will learn the waltz together, and the best dancer will partner with Gail on the night."

Titters arise. Behind me, snickers arise as the boys nudge each other. "No chance for you then, Stumble Toes Sheng," mutters Avian, and I have to cough discreetly to cover the laugh that threatens to erupt from my mouth.

Sheng, dancing? _That. Is. Hilarious!_

But I promise to give them all a fair chance. Including Sheng. Maybe.

"And what about the rest of the Selected?" Kingsley asks. "You know, the ones unfortunate not to win the princess' hand in the dance?"

"You will be paired with maids who have kindly volunteered," says Rudy.

Romilda nods. "Rudy and I have been practicing our waltz skills to teach you all. I hope you're ready for the intensity!"

"Pffft. How hard can it be?" says Parker.

Poor boy.

It might as well be the learning to walk class again, for all the times boys fall and trip and crash into one another. Romilda and Rudy take hands and demonstrate how to pose, how to lead (for the gents), and how to travel across the floor, as smooth as silk. Having done this many years, I've already mastered the waltz's fine technicalities, but watching the boys trying to dance is like watching the first episode of Dancing with the Stars. They're all so stiff.

Well, most of them. Naturally Valerian is so good as he leads me gently across the floor. It's with strong muscles that he holds my back – I feel his supple strength as we flow, as he picks up the steps so fast I'd think he'd done this before.

"How is my waltzing, Your Highness?" he asks with that deep, annoyingly attractive voice of his. "Am I holding you too tightly?"

"Oh no, you're holding me juuuuust right." I don't mean to sound so slick as I say it but I can't help it, his voice does strange things to my knees. "Are you sure you haven't done this before?"

"Positive. I have taken dance lessons before though, to improve my posture for photo shoots."

"It's paid off."

He beams.

Rudy pairs me off with Kingsley next. Typically, it seems he and Valerian are neck-and-neck, with Kingsley being equally as good, maybe a little more proficient, at waltz. He takes my hands firmly, showing command, and we glide together like two fish in the river. Except his fish is very hot.

He winks at me. "I have danced before."

"So I can see."

He chuckles under his breath. "I would be the perfect partner to you, Your Highness. I can guarantee, with my skill, that I won't mess up any routine that you have planned."

"I don't doubt that." I glance to my left – Jeremiah has accidentally stepped on Ansel's toes and is hawking profuse, sincere apologies as Ansel mutters curses under his breath. "It will take some work to get everyone into waltzing shape."

Then my eyes fall on Sheng, and a laugh bursts out of my mouth like a spy car ejector seat. He and Avian are attempting – strong word, _attempting_ – to get the movement right. There's a bounce to the waltz that comes with practice, and Avian seems to have nailed it, but Sheng? He's actually bobbing up and down trying to copy. Like fish bait on a rod.

Kingsley's gaze follows mine, and he mashes his lips together to not laugh in vain. "Dancing is obviously not for everyone."

"On the contrary," Rudy says, as he passes by, raising Kingsley's shoulders and knocking his foot against Kingsley's shins to tuck them in. "Anyone can dance, should they have the right teacher."

Kingsley's cheeks burn, but goes back to being his very Kingsley self when Rudy asks me to switch partners again.

"I think it might be better if you pair with people less skilled," he says.

Kingsley can't argue with that. Romilda pairs me with Ben next – for some reason Ben struck me as someone who was mightily capable of dancing, but as he demonstrates his skills, AKA his drunken ambling which is supposed to be the basic travel, I find out quickly that I'm very, very wrong.

"Ow, that's my toe!"

"Shoot, my bad, Your Highness. I thought we were trying to mirror each other."

"Yes, yep. That's right." I shake my head and focus back on Ben, who is grinning and not giving much care to how well he does, only that he does. "It's quite distracting moving from partner to partner."

"I can imagine. Hey, are we still on for an MCU date?"

"Emsee—" Wait, he means that film series, right? "Yes! That would be wonderful. Not that I know anything about superheroes."

"You don't need to know anything. It was based off a really old comic book series." His eyes twinkle with mischief. "Think I could come to this dance in a cape?"

"Only if you come in tight spandex as well."

"That would make me so powerful. Like Shaggy."

"Like who?"

"Ah, no one." We practice a turn, and he gets it. "How's that?"

"That was great!"

He preens like a peacock. "Watch this."

He proceeds to twist me violently around before pulling me up, only to catch himself on my leg and fall on his butt. I've never seen someone stand up so fast. I can't stop giggling.

Rudy strides over, less concerned and more bemused. "Everything okay here, Ben?"

"Fine fine, Mister Rudy."

"He fell over," I say.

"It's false. No way. Not this time. She created it. Not this time. No. Not this time. It's totally made up. Pure fiction."

"… Ben, I literally watched you as your behind connected with the floor," says Rudy, with a roll of his eyes. "Be more careful. You won't win Her Highness' hand for the dance by making a fool of yourself."

But he grins at me, because he knows making a fool of himself is exactly what makes me laugh.

I'm surprised and yet not surprised when my last partner is Nicholas. I never took him as the dancing type, but he seemed to be good at everything, let alone law and politics. A frown mars his otherwise handsome face, his ducked brows shadowed by a sweaty mop of chestnut hair.

"I'm not sure I can do this," he admits.

"Sure you can!" I pipe. "So, the pose! Hold my right hand with your left." He clamps it tightly. "Not so hard! I don't want to burst a blood vessel!"

He coughs, relaxes. "Sorry."

"Okay. Now other hand on my waist." This time, his grip is much more suitable. My skin buzzes with warmth, despite the layers of fabric between the touch. "Tuck in your butt."

"My butt _is_ tucked in."

"It's sticking out. I can tell. Your frame is curving outwards."

Face heated, he straightens.

"Don't hunch."

He raises his chin.

"Push out your shoulders."

They relax.

"Now stick your tongue out."

"… Wait, really?"

"Kidding! I wondered how far you would go." I grin and laugh, but Nicholas isn't finding it as funny, forcing a chuckle from his throat. So I cut my amusement and tug gently on his blazer. "Now, this is where you lead me. So take a step forwards, and I'll take a step back."

He steps forwards – well, more lunges into my personal space, and I stagger back then fall with a soft "oof!" and an ache that sparks up my spine like an electric shock. Nicholas is too slow to grab me.

"Ack! I'm so sorry!" He offers me a hand, his cheeks going red.

"That's okay." Though really, how hard is it to step forwards? I readjust our positioning. "Here. Let's try again."

He shakes his head. "It's not okay. I need to get it right."

"It's the first class. Promise we're not going to be mad."

He doesn't look like that's an acceptable answer. Funny, in that first debate we went to watch, Nicholas seemed so at ease, almost like he belonged with the stuffy politicians and their high IQs and wordy vocabularies, but here, out of his element, Nicholas puffs up like a balloon with frustration. The way his brow furrows and his neck tenses… it's a contrast, so different from that suave persona that saved me from the oiliest of ministers, and it kind of makes me want to laugh.

Then his gaze hardens at my amusement. "Please don't pity me."

"Pity you? No! I just find it sweet that you're trying so hard."

"Well, I do want to win this thing."

Of course. Because at the end of the day, that's all that matters.

Sobered by the seriousness of it all, I teach him a few more steps. Nicholas loosens his posture enough that his floor travel improves massively. Still ramrod straight, but enough that he lifts his head and takes pride as he leads me across the floor.

"Wonderful job, Nicholas!" Romilda pipes, hands clapping. "Though you must relax! Your face looks like it's about to launch into the stratosphere."

Nicholas rolls his jaw, cheeks flushing for the second time today.

"You have stiff competition," Romilda's eyes drift to both Kingsley and Valerian, who are sweeping their maids across the floor as they glare at one another, "but don't let that discourage you."

She goes to fawn over the next pair, but the damage is done. Nicholas clenches my hands the entire time I try to teach him. Oh dear. Looks like he has a classic case of perfectionism.

I'm not looking for someone perfect. I'm looking for someone who will try, and take things in their stride when they don't succeed.

I make a mental note about it as the class ends. Rudy lines all the boys up by the wall.

"A decent first attempt, gentlemen. There are some clear stand-outs amongst you, but without having taught you the steps to the dance, there's no way knowing who will win."

"Next few classes, we will be teaching you the choreography," Romilda follows. "More details about the other things you'll need to organise for the ball to follow. But the dance is most important! Absolutely!"

"Indeed." Rudy smiles knowingly. "You won't have to start until after your history presentations this week. I'm particularly looking forward to those."

He might be the only one. _Scratch that,_ I think as I glance warily at Elliot, who is in turn glaring at Yamato. _He_ is _the only one._

* * *

 **A/N:** Hi everyone! Oh dear, looks like Gail can't catch a break. Lots of spicy drama in the Selection, and for once Kingsley didn't generate it, hahah. Hope you enjoyed this chapter.

In case you haven't seen, you should check out Michelle the Editor's oneshot **The Bullet and the Book**! It takes place late into tsats and features our favourite love-to-hate social parasite, Katrina Berg. If you've read tsats or are reading it (spoiler warning though!), I would highly, highly recommend checking it out. It's so beautifully written and evocative.

Thankies, friends.

~ GWA

NTT: "Would you be able to explain in more detail what a _meme_ is?"


	31. Living in the Presentation

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single lady who has instated a Selection must be in want of a rink.

No, wait. _Boyfriend._ Yes. That's right.

But somehow I'm struggling to see how anyone in my group could be my future boyfriend. Especially Yamato and Elliot, who stand at other ends of the line as I lead them towards the rink. They have no idea where I'm taking them.

"The presentation is in a few hours," I pronounce over the sounds of our footsteps, hitting wood and carpet and ornate rugs that hug the hallway walls. I spin to face them and walk backwards as I speak. "We have this morning to hash out the last details."

"We're nearly there with it," Yamato says, in a rare moment of genuine positivity. "We just need to get the timing right." It's a miracle he and Elliot haven't clawed at one another yet. Somehow our last meeting went off rather seamlessly.

"Yes, there's that. But!" I halt, the boys halt. "If there's anything Cami and co. will pick out, it's that we're not very cohesive as a group. So I think we should stop practicing the presentation for a moment and connect better as friends."

"Connect?" Avian echoes.

"Yep!"

I push open the rink doors and dramatically sweep the view with my arms. "We're going onto the ice!"

Mixed reactions abound. Avian's eyebrows jump as he takes in the scene. Elliot _oohs_ and grins excitedly. Soren has the face of Soren, but he doesn't hesitate as he saunters inside, and as the others follow timidly behind, I watch Yamato stay at the threshold.

"No."

"No?" I repeat, turning to him, as the rest of the group go to put on protective gear. "What do you mean by that?"

"I respect you, Your Highness, but… but I refuse to play ice hockey."

"See, that's the genius of my team-building skills," I say, wagging my finger. "Because we're not _just_ playing ice hockey. We're also all going to learn some ice skating things. Like the triple ultra spin me right round— erm, what did you call it?"

"Triple axel?"

"Yes, that. You'll teach us, won't you?"

He stiffens. "Why?"

"Why not? I think it's best if we all learn and appreciate a little bit about each other." My hands clap excitedly. "And you're really good on the ice!"

His expression troupes through a litany of emotions before settling on that vague, but somewhat unsure, look of wariness. "I don't think certain members of this group will agree to do that."

"Other certain members of this group are also princesses who are very stubborn. Now come on."

He grimaces as he slowly ties the shin pads and arm guards to his body, a stark contract to Elliot, who could probably wear the gear as a permanent second skin. Soren, too, knows what to put where – sometimes I forget he played hockey on his university's team – but I have to help Avian with his gear. I make sure to point out the small camera crew in the corner of the room, who agreed, at my request, to film some pieces of our meeting today for _Report_ footage. They won't get sound, so we're free to talk as much as we like, but everything we do is captured and immortalised forever.

Nothing like a bit of pressure to reduce everyone's tensions.

Before long we're on the ice. At least everyone knows how to skate.

"Okay!" I raise the hockey stick and come to stop at the goal. "Let's play some basic penalties! You all have to work together to score, okay?"

Just then, Yamato yelps – his foot goes way up and he hits the ice. Hard. Through the helmet his cheeks erupt. I skate over and wordlessly offer to help him up, but he waves me away.

"Hockey skates," he mutters. "No toe picks."

Elliot looks like he's going to laugh, but one glare of my very pretty narrowed eyes makes him not say anything. I get Soren to be the defence, forcing Elliot, Yamato and Avian to work together to get the puck in.

"Go!" I call.

Elliot is so good he crosses half the rink in record time. I'm reminded of my date with him, steamrolling towards me with blood in his eyes – and it's no different here. He zips forwards, entirely bypassing Soren, and shoots. I whack the stick down and the puck rebounds harmlessly away.

"Elliot, that's not the point of this!"

"I thought the point was to play?"

"It is, but I wanted you to use Yamato and Avian too!"

His mouth rolls but as we reset, he kindly passes the puck to Avian.

"Hahah!" Avian cheers. "I have the puck!"

Soren reaches forwards, steals it, and then spirals back.

"… I have lost the puck!"

"Nooooo!" I call. Why are they so dense? "You're supposed to pass it to get through Soren."

"Oh." Avian lowers his stance. "All right. I'm ready."

Elliot passes him the puck. Avian takes it, skating slowly – agonisingly slowly – towards Soren. Soren, blissfully without me having to tell him, goes a little slower to intercept. Avian hits it away in time, and the puck lands in Yamato's toe.

"Score!" yells Elliot.

Yamato winces, but he skates forwards, carefully, slowly, deliberately. Soren doesn't even try to intervene, and I bang the stick against the ice as a way to motivate him.

Yamato stops about two paces away. "Okay. Here goes." He rears the stick back like a golf club and smacks – the puck sails far left and batters against the wall.

"Erm, you know there's a rule saying you can't lift the stick above waist height, right?"

"… Is there?"

"It was a good try," says Soren.

Yamato reaches through his helmet to massage his forehead. "Right."

We play a few more rounds. No scores are made – with Elliot at the back of the rink and Soren preventing most of the better attempts, there's no way anything was going into the goal. But I see Avian take it more seriously, I see Yamato sweat. I see them putting in the effort. It warms my heart.

The next time, Elliot actually passes it to Yamato. Yamato has to reach to get the puck, but it sinks into his toe. Juggling it around to keep it in his possession, he picks up speed and slides passed Soren to make a shot – below the waist.

But I'm not going to let it in for the sake of it. I pivot my left foot, and it knocks against my skate.

"Hey, not bad!"

Yamato shrugs.

"Well?" Elliot says as we gather for a quick break around the low wall. "What did you think?"

I'm surprised he seems so open to talking about it, but I know he's making an effort to put the past behind him, to give Yamato a chance. I appreciate him more for that.

Yamato chugs down a water bottle so fast I think he'll drink the bottle, too.

"Why does it matter?"

"Did you enjoy playing?"

"Not particularly."

"That's okay, we're not asking you too," I cut in quickly, in case Yamato's bluntness sets off some alarm bells. "But do you appreciate how hard it is to play?"

He goes quiet for a moment as we all stare at him expectantly. He sighs.

"Yes. Fine. I concede."

"And do you think it requires skill?"

"Yes."

Pride surges through me. _I did it!_

"But now." He removes his helmet, shakes the sweaty locks of his black hair free. "Now we try figure skating."

Elliot tries to disguise the look of shock on his face and fails massively. "Wait, what?"

"Yep!" I chirrup. "Out of your gear, all of you! I've got us all figure skates!"

They're different from hockey skates. Longer, sleeker, and of course there are toe picks. Yamato slides into his old ones like hugging a best friend, whereas Elliot yanks his on like how someone might tussle with a drunk stranger outside a nightclub at 3am.

"These feel weird," he confesses.

I shoo him onto the ice. Immediately he stumbles, catching himself on the wall and hauling himself up. I have to say, I saw his muscles through his shirt as he did that, and oh _heck,_ if I couldn't bring my team together at least I got to see that.

"Figure skates," he mumbles, rubbing his hair.

I understand. I've worn figure skates a few times in my life – mostly when I was just starting on the ice, but compared to hockey skates they're more delicate, more flexible. It's like my feet are used to stone, but instead meet silver.

Yamato lines us up.

"Her Highness wants us to do the triple axel, but that's a little advanced and I don't want anyone in bandages, so… how about some bunny hops?"

"Bunny hops?" Elliot exclaims. "You're not serious."

"I don't joke about figure skating," he warns. "It's a simple manoeuvre. All you're doing is skating forwards in a line, jumping up on your right foot and lifting your knees. Watch." He demonstrates, hopping along a line, making it look like he could do it with his eyes closed, asleep, backwards. "You try."

I go first, if only to show some solidarity that I'm open-minded enough. It's quite nerve-wracking. In ice hockey you start firmly planted to the ice, not launching into the air terrified you'll land wrong and twist an ankle.

When I reach the other side of the rink, I ask, "Did I do it?"

He grimaces, though desperately tries to hide it. "Well, you were twitching your knees. Not really lifting them."

"It looked like you were trying to squat!" calls Avian. Which is probably the kinder version of what everyone else is thinking. Yamato stifles a smile – it seems to be a rare commodity, his amusement.

"You try then!" I challenge Avian.

Avian proceeds to show me up for a whole minute. It's not perfect, but he does at least get his legs off the ground.

"That was good," says Yamato. Awkwardly he pats Avian on the shoulder. "You could be a figure skater with practice."

"Hah! Hear that?" He sashays dramatically back in a circle. " _I_ could be the next Yamato!"

"Let's not push it," Yamato says darkly. "Soren?"

Soren winces, but he gives it ago. On the third hop he falls to the ground, hands splayed on the ice as he breaks his fall. Then something shocking happens. He laughs.

"I tried."

"You nearly had it," Yamato encourages. I physically see his shoulders loosen, and more pride wells in my heart. "Just, er, don't fall next time."

Soren shrugs, but he's being a good sport about it. He gives it another go and successfully manages to make it to the other side without slipping.

"Good." Yamato gives him a single nod. "So… Elliot?"

Elliot's lips are a flat line, but he takes off, leaping into the air with gusto. I clap him on, thrilled to see he's giving it his all. I actually think he overdoes it – something I never thought I'd say about Elliot and figure skating.

"Well?" he asks when he gets to our side. It sounds somewhat accusatory.

"Not bad," Yamato says. "You went all out for it."

"Yeah. I guess." He rubs his arms.

In the pause, Yamato skates forwards.

"I want to show you all something."

He takes off then, making a gracious arc of the half-rink and then launching into the air. My jaw drops – it's the same move as before, the one I saw in his routine. He spirals – once? Twice? – before the ice churns beneath his skates, and his legs and arms extend to balance him. Before he missed the landing, but here, he nailed it, and elegantly comes to halt before us.

"That was a double axel," he says, panting.

I clap him. "Wow! That was amazing!"

"Double," Avian repeats. "Not triple?"

"I… It's not a good idea I try that one." He glances down at his feet. "I haven't entirely recovered from my last injury."

"Wait. You're _injured?"_ I say. "I… had no idea."

He shrugs, as if skating on a bad foot is no big deal, then humbly nods my way, but his eyes are on Elliot. "Do you think you could do that?"

Elliot has the sense to look chastened. "No."

"Not without practice," Yamato notes. "Which is what I've been doing my whole life." His gaze hardens as it drifts to the rink. "I still… I still get it wrong sometimes."

"What's your point?" Elliot mumbles.

"Ice skating isn't _easy,_ is it? Not everyone can just _do it."_

"No," Elliot agrees. "I guess not."

I think that's as close to an apology as we're going to get.

"I still prefer ice hockey," Elliot says.

"Okay. That's not the point I was trying to make." Yamato's open expression closes like a door. "It's not a _pansy_ sport, is it?"

"And ice hockey isn't _brutish?"_

"I never said that."

Elliot blinks, too surprised to do anything for a moment. Then he says, "Er, yes. You did. _I_ never said anything about ice skating."

"Oh, okay. Of course."

"What's _that_ supposed to mean?"

"Only that you've been talking smack about me every single time I'm around."

"I've been doing that because _you've_ been doing that!"

I look helplessly at Avian and Soren, but neither of them seem to understand it. My face heats as I remember the cameras rolling around the side of the room, capturing our emotions, the shock on my face, the anger on Elliot and Yamato's.

"Get a clue, Yamato! Not everything's about you and skating!"

"I don't care about that! Only that I'm earnt some respect!"

"You'll get respect when you give it!"

"I should say the same to you!"

" _Enough!"_ I yell so hard it reverberates through my shoes. Yamato and Elliot cut immediately. "This is ridiculous! Do you know how hard I've been trying to get you two to quit this stupid, petty argument? You're supposed to be professionals! Civil! Maybe I tried too hard to get you to like ice hockey but at least I was open-minded. This— this is just childish!"

Elliot opens his mouth, but I hold up a hand. "No. I don't want to hear another word. I don't care who started this stupid fight. I'll finish it." I stomp my heel. "We're doing this presentation in a few hours, and if neither of you get your act together, you are _both_ eliminated!"

Blood drains from Elliot's face. Yamato goes rigid still, unable to hide the skyrocket of his eyebrows. To make my point, I skate forwards, off the rink, and start sharply yanking my boots off. Neither Elliot nor Yamato, nor even Avian or Soren, approach me to talk, and thank goodness, as anger roils in my chest, too incensed for me to make words. I flounce out of the rink.

I meant what I said. If they don't put their differences aside, they're both gone. And I am going to follow through.

We'll just have to see how the presentations pan out.

* * *

Cami has made the politics presentations a grand event, having cleared space in the studio for our canvases and presentation projections. The whole room is a buzz of activity as runners zip through the mass of people with clipboards and coffee cups, and make-up artists that touch upon our faces for the fourth, fifth time. The presentations won't be filmed live, but they will be cut and chopped for more footage to show to on the _Report._

I don't need to mention how important this is for the Selected. After the disaster of the rink team-building, I hope they'll be able to pull it all together here.

Four chairs are lined on the stage, backs facing the camera. Cami, Rudy, JJ and Lilly are already seated, talking and signing animatedly between them. Rudy mutters something into Cami's ear and she laughs, and JJ and Lilly sign, pointing at the Selected as they flit passed with notecards and props in hand.

I approach them, taking a deep breath. "Are you ready?"

"Am _I_ ready?" Cami says with a laugh. "I should be asking you that."

I wince, which is all the answer needed.

She smiles. "I'm sure you'll be fine. How is everyone faring in, erm," she glances down at her itinerary sheet, " _Team Yamato, feat. Avian?"_

"Oh. Well. It's… something."

Cami frowns. "Gail…"

"I did try to help Elliot and Yamato get along, I swear, but sometimes I just don't think people want to be helped."

"At least," says Rudy, "this may make your decision easier."

We'll see.

Over in the far corner, Team Yamato, feat. Avian, minus me, are huddled together and rehearsing the last finer details of the presentation. I haven't talked to them since I left the rink in such a flurry this morning, and nerves clamber down my back as I move towards them. They immediately sit up, their eyes training on me.

Yamato stands. Everyone follows. "Hello, Your Highness," he says unevenly. "We, erm. We wanted to apologise."

I shake my head. "I don't want to hear that now. We have a presentation to do. So you can save your apologies until afterwards."

"That's just it. I… we recognise there may not _be_ an afterwards for some of us…" His voice trails as he glances at Elliot, who swallows loudly. "I just think it would be better to apologise to you now."

"I agree," says Elliot.

My lips purse. "We only have a few minutes before the cameras roll. Are you sure you want to spend those last few moments gushing to me?"

"Maybe not _gushing,_ but… yes."

I look him and Elliot in the eye. They're both sincere about their intentions, and it's kind that they decided to speak about it now, instead of sweeping it under a rug for later.

"Okay." I plonk myself down next to them. "I'm listening."

"I'm sorry," Elliot bursts out, turning to face me and bowing his head. "You were right. It was… silly."

Yamato nods. "I'm sorry as well. I guess…" he frowns, looking at Elliot again, "I guess we both realised it wasn't really worth it."

"No," Elliot agrees. "I don't like his sport, he doesn't like mine. Let's leave it at that."

"I'm sorry too, for what it's worth," says Avian, "er, even though I'm not that involved. Though I probably didn't help egging it on, and I probably misremembered some details…"

Soren nods once in solidarity. "I apologise."

"This is very mature of you all." I don't know what they hashed out in my absence, or how, but at least for now, it seems the air is cleared. I stand. "Let's do the presentation."

"Are…" Elliot stands, wincing. "Are we still up for elimination?"

I'm not prepared to answer that question right now, because even though they both apologised, they still got to the point of argument in the first place. So I shrug. "I don't know how I feel yet." And leave them to mull on the thought as I take my reserved spot at the front of the bleachers.

The rest of the Selected file in behind. Sheng catches my eye as he ascends the tiers; it's a mixed expression, shaken like a cocktail, but one of utter determination nonetheless. _Count on it, Gail._ His words from the chocolate festival wrap around my shoulders, and I straighten my back. He was a group leader. Let's see how he fared.

Cami stands after everyone is seated. The red lights blink. We're rolling.

"Good afternoon, everyone. I hope you're prepared as you can be for our presentations on multiple political topics today." She gestures to the judges. "With me is your Selection co-ordinator Rudy, your history teacher JJ, and my good friend and politics enthusiast Lilly Carter. JJ will be translating for Lilly as we go, so please pay it no mind.

"Some of you have already asked, so I'm going to reiterate that we're not going to have a firm judging criteria." She smooths her dark green dress, out of habit, or nerves, I don't know. "But we've all agreed that we're looking for is solid points, an attractive and appropriate presentation appearance, and good cohesion between the teams."

Good cohesion. Oh heck.

"Your presentations should last around five minutes, and Rudy will make a signal once you've surpassed that. We've also one last thing to add. After each presentation, we will be asking questions pertaining to your topic and to your group."

My back goes rigid cold. We didn't prepare for that. At. All.

A smug expression rises on her face. "Again, this is another lesson to be learnt for you all in this line of work – sometimes things will happen that are unexpected. You must be prepared to adapt as necessary. How you answer our questions will affect our grading of your presentation. All clear?"

Nods bob. Oh gosh. We barely have a presentation in hand. How are we going to survive an outright interrogation?

"Good." Cami sits. "Then we would like to start with Sir Bahe's team. Ahem, Team _We Are So Cool?"_

Kajika, Zelda, Ansel, Levi and Valerian strut to centre stage. They're all wearing business wear, Kajika cutting a sharp figure in a tailored black suit and tie. Even Zelda is wearing a pencil skirt – her, a pencil skirt!

Cami gives them a few moments to organise themselves, and Kajika whispers in hushed tones. I'm surprised at the ease at which Kajika commands. It's neither with great presence nor extremely timid, but a good balance of both. He tells Valerian to move to the side, and Valerian moves. He reminds Ansel to speak up, and Ansel lifts his chin. Such small things that demonstrates a lot.

"For the record," Kajika begins, "Zelda chose the team name."

Zelda gives the camera a thumbs-up. Rudy facepalms.

"Welcome to our presentation." He introduces the line as if we don't know who they are already, but it's a good, easy start. "Today we will be discussing the political, social and cultural repercussions of the transition to constitutional monarchy."

Off they shoot. As Kajika passes discussion to vibrant Zelda, and vibrant Zelda to beaming Levi, and beaming Levi to articulate Ansel, and articulate Ansel to calming Valerian, my butt melts into the seat with despair. Their presentation is so good. Like, _they made a deal with the devil to make it this good_ good. Their points are beautifully succinct and clear, and they cover mishaps and mistakes well, if there are any at all. Kajika and Zelda and Ansel stumble some lines, but Levi and Valerian carry with their grace and poise and charm. At most they make glances at their notecards and nothing more.

The presentation ends just as Rudy raises his hand to signal time.

"Well, that was spectacular," Cami says, after a small round of applause. "A wonderfully airtight presentation. You should be proud of your team, Sir Bahe."

He nods once and a smile ekes from his serious, neutral lips. "Thank you. I am. We've worked incredibly hard."

"Indeed," Rudy says. He sits up. "I'd wished you'd touched more upon the cultural aspects of the transition. Would you be able to explain in more detail what a _meme_ is?"

Zelda bursts out laughing, but reins it in so quickly she chokes.

"It's an Internet in-joke," Levi says quickly but ever so enthusiastically. "Sometimes it comes in the forms of captioned images, other times just a string of text or a phrase that is popularised by media. They're usually funny."

"I see," Rudy says. "What sort of these _memes_ occurred when we transitioned to constitutional monarchy? Can you give an example?"

So he's testing their research. Clever. Luckily Ansel steps in, incredibly deadpan as he says, "There was that image of the king making a surprised face with text that said 'your face when you realise you lose all your power to democracy'."

"I… fail to see how that is amusing."

"Okay, boomer," says Zelda.

"It's funnier in context," Ansel says, passing Zelda an unimpressed glare.

Rudy frowns. He scribbles notes.

Lilly raises her hand and signs. JJ repeats it. " _Do you have any argument as to why an absolute monarchy may have been more beneficial than a constitutional one at the time of the transition?"_

At that, they pause, glancing at one another.

"There was political turmoil," Kajika begins. "I think the benefits of constitutional monarchy definitely outweighed the risks."

"But," Valerian cuts in smoothly before JJ can intervene, "there is, perhaps, argument that the transition period was incredibly rocky and risky for the economy and morale of the nation. Keeping it absolute would have, at least, assuaged levels of risk and contained all governmental activity to the palace, instead of spreading it between here and the Ivory House."

JJ signs to Lilly, and she nods, satisfied.

"A smart answer," says JJ, nodding at Valerian, who lifts his chin in pride.

"I think that will do," Cami says. "Thank you gentlemen and Zelda. You may return to your seats."

It will be hard for anyone to follow. My heart is in my throat. _Are we next?_

"Sir Elsmore and team. You next, please." Cami glances at the sheet as they take their places. "Ahem. _Super Squad."_

I'm right when I say it's hard to follow. Maurice, Nicholas, Silas and Max cluster on the stage. Down one man due to Jasper's impromptu elimination a few days ago, Silas and Max look like they haven't gone to the bathroom in weeks. Nicholas just looks sad, dejected, whereas Maurice is holding up his smile by strings.

"Hi there. Today we're going to talk about," he glances down at his notes, "the political movements of the Southern Rebels in history and today."

So their speech begins. Because that what it is. A speech. Maurice reads straight off his cards, as does Nicholas, who takes his time – too much time. Max makes an effort to look up and powers awkwardly through his part of the discussion, and Silas forgets his words halfway through and stumbles to finish as the presentation runs over by a minute.

Rudy raises his hand and says, "Did you prepare this all last night?"

Maurice's easy grin flops.

Nicholas immediately puts in, "Max and I had to write Maurice's part for him because he didn't turn up to any of our sessions prepared."

Max winces, but it must be true as he doesn't argue.

"Hey, come on," Maurice says, shooting him a glare, "I said I was busy doing JJ's essay."

"We _all_ got the same essay, Maurice," says Nicholas, rubbing his temple. "We were all waiting for you to turn up, and you didn't. You were late to every other session. What kind of team leader does that? You said to us, _go and write your parts and we'll stick them together in the end."_

"It shows," says Cami, shaking her head.

"Is this true, Max, Silas?" asks Rudy.

Max and Silas exchange a glance, then a weary nod.

"Oh come on. That's uncool, guys," says Maurice.

No one has further questions, like it's not even worth it. My heart goes out to Max and Silas, who have clearly tried to make something out of… whatever this was. Then my focus is on Nicholas. Even with Maurice clearly not pulling as team leader, the speed at which Nicholas threw him into the wolf pit puts me on edge.

"All right. Sir Mah. Your team next."

So we're last. Great.

Sheng stands robotically and his team follows. One great one, one poor one. I don't think Sheng aims to have the best presentation, only to do well enough to satisfy. He marches down the tiers as Kingsley saunters behind. Parker, Jeremiah and Ben provide the bounce as they form an equal line.

"Hello—" Sheng clears his throat and loudly repronounces. "Hello. I am Sheng." He swallows, fiddles with the cards in his hands. "This is Kingsley, Parker, Jeremiah, and— and Ben. Our topic is the government's cabinet and the democratic election of the… of our prime minister, Wafiya Ahmed."

It strikes me hard then. Sheng has bad stage fright. He must have. The way he only glances at Cami and co. for half a millisecond before dipping his head… I've never seen him so nervous and wound-up before. How often is he in front of the cameras like this? Besides the odd questions lobbed his way on the _Report,_ not often. At least his teammates seem to be holding it together.

Their presentation comes with a projection on the canvas. It's information-light, mostly formed of pictures (and memes, à la Ben) to complement the topic. Sheng rigidly makes his way through his portion before passing it to Kingsley, who smoothly engages the panel like old friends. Parker powers through his stutter like a champion, taking a brave moment to breathe deeply and refocus when it gets too much, even if it costs them vital time. That his team allowed him that is wonderful to see.

"So," Jeremiah continues to explain, "Ahmed's opponent, Billy Sanchez, attempted to take advantage of her wavering political support and asked Ahmed to drop out of the race. But Ahmed responded—"

"No, I don't think I will," says Ben.

Jeremiah rolls his eyes, but it at least gets a laugh from JJ.

Ben continues. "Ahmed stuck to her guns, and it ultimately paid off when she defeated Sanchez in Illéa's first election, so much so that Sanchez stepped down as party leader, making way for newcomer Kenley Plantagenet to take her place."

"And… that's it," Sheng says abruptly. "Thank you."

A mild clap ensues.

"Only a little over time," says JJ. "Very good. I particularly like that you used other historically established ministries to inform your presentation about our own."

Lilly signs, and JJ says, "Lady Carter agrees with me. _Do you think the upheaval of the monarchy's transition affected the results of the election?"_

"Certainly," Kingsley pipes. His voice is like peanut butter. Smooth but with a little rugged crunch. "We were in a precarious position at that moment of time. The castes were in the middle of being dissolved, and His Majesty was only a few weeks into his reign by the time Prime Minister Ahmed was sworn in. It certainly put negative strain on political parties involved."

"I… I disagree."

My eyes land on Sheng, but his back is straight, pretending Kingsley isn't besides him, eyes wide.

"I think, though it was risky… I think it was what the people wanted, and they were willing to put in the work for it. I think the positive future outweighed the negative present."

"And what he means by _that_ is that everything was new; the government, the monarch, the parties. There was disenchantment with the system but not enough that people—"

"No, no, Kingsley, there's no need to twist his words," Cami pronounces above him. Sheng and Kingsley straighten. "You don't always have to agree, especially on something like this. In fact, I like that you have differing opinions. It shows us that you all have minds of your own."

Kingsley puffs up like a peacock whose feathers have been washed and buffed. Sheng nods tersely, though I can tell he's glad Cami stood up for him and his thoughts.

"Thank you, that will be all. Finally, Sir Watanabe's group. _Team Yamato, feat. Avian."_

I close my eyes, take a deep breath. I don't know why _I'm_ so nervous. At the end of the day, this doesn't affect me more than a tiny sway in public perception, but for the boys, it'll be the difference between popularity and disdain, from staying and elimination. I stand besides Avian as we make it to the stage.

"Good afternoon to the panel." Yamato introduces us, me with titles and all, to everyone. Suddenly my fingers itch to fidget, but I clench my note cards tightly and resist the urge to pull at the hem of my dress. "Our topic of discussion is the political motivations behind Selections of the past."

Yamato speaks clearly, without intonation, but at least with a passion he's clawed up from whichever crevice it formed. He starts with Damon Illéa's Selection to set the tone, and takes my advice to run over a little to cover everything. Avian follows with Clarkson Schreave's Selection, using less time to describe my ancestor in gory detail. I'm next, and I inject some enthusiasm into my topic of Maxon, dabbling over the tumult of the name-choosing process and the consequences thereafter. Elliot follows with Galloway's – Diantha's – Selection, and I can feel how hard he's trying to make himself sound more articulate. He's written more since last session too, lengthening his portion. Finally Soren describes Roy's Selection and ends on a positive high note to close us off.

When we finish, four seconds over time, I try to read the faces of my friends and family. Cami is scribbling furiously, not even looking up. Rudy is rolling his lips, his gaze passing between each of us with varying degrees if curiosity. JJ and Lilly sign but twist their bodies so I can't read all their gestures, only able to pick out the words: _monarchy, Selection, nuance,_ and _average._

"Well…?" I prompt, after too long a moment of awkward silence.

"It didn't flow as well as I was hoping," JJ begins, causing Yamato to clam up like a shell. "You would tell us about one Selection, then move onto the next, then the next, et cetera."

Lilly nods her agreement. " _I would've liked to have seen more about the deeper nuances of the decisions made."_

JJ repeats this for the boys. "Actually, here's an interesting question for all the boys and not Her Highness: do you think this current Selection is politically motivated?"

Cami doesn't say anything, so this question must've been approved behind my back.

"O-Of course not," Elliot squeaks.

"I actually think it is," says Yamato, "but… not in the same way as these other ones are. There's always multiple reasons to have a Selection. I think Her Highness' chief reason was to find a partner, but there are many benefits that happen when it occurs anyway, such as boosting in morale, a more positive image of the royal family…"

I grin really, extra hard, trying to shoo out the thought that my chief reason for having the Selection was to make one of the boys behind me jealous. Which I guess it is about a partner. Sort of.

Cami nods. "A wise answer."

"It also shows maturation of the royal in question," says Soren, glancing at me. "A Selection is a tradition only done when the royal believes they are ready to undertake such a huge task."

"Very true also."

"And Your Highness," Rudy opens, and I know I'm about to get utterly demolished, "a question for you. How do you think your team fared?"

I want to sink into the ground and turn into a plant. Of all the questions, why this one? Yamato, Elliot, Avian and Soren look my way, and though I'm staring resolutely at Rudy, I can feel the heat of their gazes, searing like a sunburn on my sides.

"It had its ups and downs," I hedge. "There were arguments."

"And what about your team leader?"

"Yamato was… firm. Not very compassionate most of the time, but firm." I think it's a fair assessment until I see the hurt that crosses his face, replaced instantly with that passiveness. But it was there. "I think he was so organised but sometimes forgot to have fun whilst we were doing it."

The presentation ends, and the boys return to their seats. The panel don't deliberate for too long.

"I think the divisions are clear enough without further discussion." Cami faces the boys. "So congratulations to Sir Bahe's team for the best presentation."

They clap and cheer, swapping fist bumps and excited grins. I'm glad for Zelda and the rest of them. Not so glad for me.

"Sir Mah's comes in second. Sir Watanabe's, third. And trailing in last is Sir Elsmore's presentation."

No one is surprised. Sheng looks elated to have come second, though the bar was kind of low. Shame courses through me – I live a political life. Surely I should have done better?

"And now, Gail, do you have anything to add?"

 _Do I?_

My eyes find Yamato and Elliot. They sit with rods up their backs, their eyes so honed on mine that it's like they're staring into my soul. Do I want to eliminate them today? For how badly they've been acting these past two weeks?

But they apologised. They even came together to do it, choosing to spend their last moments before the presentations to speak to me. That shows at least that they're capable of growth. They can at least take criticism.

I take a deep breath. I need to follow my instincts.

"I have decided to eliminate two people."

A collective breath intakes. Yamato and Elliot glance at one another.

"The people going home today are Maurice Elsmore and Nicholas Jacobs." I smile sympathetically in their direction – Maurice is looking away, but Nicholas is stricken, mouth open. "I'm sorry to you both, but Maurice, it's clear you're not a leader, even when asked to be. You didn't take this seriously, and as much as I admire you for your chill personality, I need someone who will also step up when the time comes."

"But why am I going home?" asks Nicholas. "I-I did the presentation!"

"Because instead of being professional about it, you immediately threw Maurice under the bus. I get that you want to be perfect, Nicholas, but I'm not looking for that. I'm looking for people who will work in teams as well as they will individually."

An awkward silence follows. I hate this moment after eliminations – the silence, putridly thick and hard, that lodges itself in the room like a rock in my throat. I hate how everyone watches with silent pity as Maurice stands, sighs, mumbles a weak apology and mooches from the room without another word, to never be remembered.

And I hate when they fight back.

"I really don't deserve this," Nicholas calls urgently, as if rallying the others to side with him. Wisely no one speaks up. "I helped you, at the debate."

"Okay? One instance of goodness doesn't dispel this bad one."

"It evens out."

"No it doesn't. It doesn't work like that."

"But I-I'm being punished for Maurice's mistakes!"

"He was a bad team leader, but you should've taken that in your stride, Nicholas. You should've followed Max and Silas in example. It's clear you jumped at the opportunity to make him look worse." He opens his mouth but I say, "Please stop arguing. My mind is made up."

Nicholas lifts his chin, snatches his jacket, and storms out.

There's a huge exhale with the boys left. Fifteen. Only fifteen of them.

I take a deep breath. Nicholas' words were cutting but at least not aimed at me, so I focus on who's left rather than who's gone, and let the thought soothe.

"Great work everyone else. I shall have to think of a reward for Kajika's team for doing so well and making the rest of us look bad. Maybe a group date?"

Cami nods. "I'm sure they'd love that. Well done all. You deserve a rest after this."

"But don't rest too hard!" JJ calls. "I still expect your essays to be tip-top shape next class!"

"And there's the ball to organise!" Rudy adds.

A groan-laugh rumbles out just as the cameras cut. Immediately my shoulders slump. It's over. Finally over. A hand rests on my back, and Cami smiles at me gently.

"You made the right decision."

"Did I?" I ask, fumbling my hands. "Maurice didn't look like he cared. And Nicholas was so… so mad about it."

"That's how it is. Some people take to elimination differently. I agree wholeheartedly with your decision to send them both home." She squeezes. "And you did it on camera, too. That's brave. When the footage goes public, it'll be obvious who did the right thing, and let me tell you, it wasn't Sir Jacobs."

Knowing that Cami agrees is enough to alleviate some of the red-hot embers that flicker in my chest.

As the boys descend from the bleachers and congratulate or commiserate with one another, Avian bounces up to me and ropes me into a hug. Instantly his smell envelops me – something warm and spicy.

"Hey, we did great!"

"We did?" I mumble with my lips smushed against his chest.

"Yeah!" He pushes me back to arm's length, grip squeezing my shoulders. "Because we weren't dead last! Hahah!"

"Such a high bar to reach," Soren comments, but there's an eeny-meeny smile on his face too. "Yeah. We did all right."

Yamato and Elliot approach me then. There's a myriad of expressions written there. Confusion. Relief. More confusion. Elliot has the heart to look more apologetic than Yamato, though even Mr Cold as Ice's brows furrow with remorse.

"We're not eliminated," he says. The end of his sentence tips up in question, but not in a way that dares me to reconsider.

"Nope. You're both staying." I look between them. Yamato meets my eye. Elliot doesn't. "You've both proved that you can be bigger than yourselves, more than Maurice and Nicholas. I'm glad you put your differences aside for the presentation."

"And now you can go back to relentlessly loathing each other."

I nudge Avian in the side.

"I'm not asking you to be best friends," I say instead. "And I'm not asking you to talk to each other ever again. But we can at least appreciate that we all like different things, can't we?"

Yamato nods. "Of course."

"Yes, absolutely," Elliot agrees.

"Good. Then it was fun working with you. With all of you." I press a hand to Avian and Soren's sides. "I agree with Avian. We didn't win but at least we didn't come last!"

I think if I look back on this moment, I will laugh. Which is why I start laughing hysterically now, and the others, bless their hearts, join in.

"Now I'm hungry," Avian says, energetically gesturing to the door. "Is it lunchtime yet?"

"It's lunch now," says Yamato.

"Thank god. I need to eat after that!" Elliot says.

"You always need to eat, Elliot."

"Shut up, Avian."

I don't think I can feel better about the afternoon until, not long after we empty for the studio and head towards the Great Room, I get a text message.

 _Hey Su, it's Rose. I know this is really weird and you can say no, but I was wondering, totally okay if you decline, if you and Linkle want to come over for a sleepover like tomorrow night, or maybe next week after practice? Like if you don't want to then that's fine, you can forget I said anything. I invited Janet and Beverly too but so it'll be a big fun group of us, but you know, whatever you want is fine._

I still in the hallway and reread the text. My smile widens. I have enough social brownie points with the hockey team to get invited to a sleepover? Okay, it's only Rose, but still. Me, getting invited to things! I have to withhold a squeal. But as quickly as my excitement ignites does it douse.

No. There's no way I can go.

 _I can never be spontaneous._ My own words revolve in my head. Susanetta cannot go because Gail cannot. It's already cost me a vital place on the team in the tournament.

So will I let it cost me friendship, too?

I pocket my phone and clench my fists, resuming my strides with my head raised. No. Princess or not, I will find a way to get to this sleepover and paint my nails and gossip and watch silly movies, and even if I don't actually sleep over and have to bail halfway, or if I get a telling-off afterwards, so be it. All I need is to get there.

And as my eyes fall on Max at the back of the dining hall, a plan forms in my mind.

* * *

 **A/N:** So the presentations draw to a close. Wow, I loved writing this chapter so much, I cranked it out in one session. Drama is always fun to write, heheh.

What did you think of the outcome? I maaaay have misled you all thinking it was Yamato and Elliot's time to go, heh ;) Unfortunately we do have to say goodbye to Maurice Elsmore and Nicholas Jacobs; Maurice and his endless chill and Nicholas' perfectionist tendencies were really fun to write, so big thanks to **Exotence** and **Fairytoto1** for them! I have to admit I feel worst about this elimination yet, but alas, they didn't really vibe with the task at hand.

Also I feel I should note I've started posting more snippets on my Pinterest, so if you want to get ahead of the game and speculate to your heart's content (PMs always welcome), then I encourage you to follow me there. Username is the same. :D

Leave a review with your thoughts, and thanks for reading! Also, enjoy the NTT, hahahahahah.

~ GWA

NTT: Have I walked into a moment of intimacy? A moment of betrayal?


	32. Lying Around

"Gaaaaail! Gaaaaail!"

Tay's voice banging at my door might as well be an alarm bell ringing at the side of my head. I launch out of bed, my silky nightdress flying as I sprint to the door. Tay stands still, tears streaking onto his quivering lips.

"Scamp! Oh!" I kneel and pull him into a hug. "What's the matter? What's wrong?"

"One of the Selected came up to me! He was so scary!" He wraps his tiny arms around my shoulders. "He asked if I would be on camera and I didn't like that!"

 _On camera?_ My brain wracks as it searches for answers, but then said answer comes running around the corner, with my mother in tow. Levi skids to a halt and pants heavily as Omma readjusts her _hanbok_.

"Tay, sweetheart, it's all right. I promise Mister Levi isn't trying to hurt you."

"Y-Your Highness, I'm really am so sorry!" he says, but he stays a respectable distance away. "I-I didn't mean to startle you—"

Tay squeezes me harder and buries his head into my chest. I lift him up – he's a heavier little tyke than I remember – and look between Levi and Omma with confusion. Then the thought returns to my head. Levi wanted to do an interview with Tay for his fans, who adore him as much as they adore their favourite pop idol.

"Oh, Tay. It's okay. Levi's really nice, I promise."

"Yes, Tay." Omma comes up behind and rubs his back, prompting Tay to raise his head. "He was just showing you the camera. He hadn't started filming anything. I thought it might be a fun thing we could do together."

Tay sniffles. "Not fun."

"It will! How about I do it with you instead?" I say. "Won't that be fun? We can talk about baking."

"I like baking…"

"Me too," Levi chirrups, with just the right amount of sweetness that Tay can believe him. "I really like those cupcakes you baked for everyone the other day. I wish I could be as good as you."

Tay runs an arm over his face, drying his tears. "Will it be scary?"

"Nope! Promise!" Levi waggles his camera. "It won't even be live."

"See? We can chop out any parts that you don't like," I say, as I place him back down on the carpet. Tay watches Levi warily, but nods as he clings to my bare legs.

"Okay."

Omma ruffles his head. "There's a good scamp."

"Thank you so much, Prince Tay," Levi says cheerily. "And Queen Ji-Yu and Princess Gail for helping. This interview will be lots of fun!"

His eyes fall on mine with a gentle smile that quickly turns into a polite cough and an averting gaze. It's then I realise I'm still in my very thin silky nightdress (with pink flowers) that accentuate what few curves I have. Oh. A blush curls up my cheeks as I retreat to my door.

"Let me, erm, get changed first."

"Yes," Omma says, eyes darting between the two of us with a smirk, "that would be best."

I brush my teeth, put on a thin layer of make-up and change. It's not even seven in the morning and I'm not sure what these three are even doing up, but I can make an educated guess that Tay wakes at sunrise being the bouncy child he is, Omma has to take care of him, and Levi's set routine is drilled into his head from his idol days.

I come back out in a simple pink dress that does not show everything beneath, white tights, and Mary Janes. Extra cute, especially for Levi's fanbase. We decide to let Tay lead the way and choose a location, and he picks his own quarters. His parlour room.

Unlike mine, Tay's room is filled with so many feel-good things. Pictures of us hang from wire that strings from the wall. Fairy lights glow in tandem with the morning sun, brightening the muted turquoises and greens that accent his furniture and carpet. Tay's endless supply of cuddly toys sit upright on the sofa, next to his play kitchen set. He hasn't used that since Omma let him bake for real.

"Wow, I love it!" Levi comments, pure awe in his eyes as he takes in Tay's personal space. It's unusual for Tay to allow someone in here without knowing them intimately first, so Levi must've made quite the impression. "It's a very _you_ room, Your Highness."

Tay trails inside and flops onto his armchair. "Omma let me chose the colours." He points. "You can sit next to Beary Delight and Shortcake Snake."

"These two?" Levi gestures to the deep red teddy bear and the snake plush with a strawberry on its head. "Excuse me, kind animal folk, for intruding in your space." He settles and waggles his bottom to get comfy, and it makes Tay giggle. Giggle! My heart soars as I prop myself on the armchair's arm and Omma settles on the sofa next to Levi, moving Jam Jar, a literal plush of a jam jar with eyes, and Pork Belly the pig plush aside.

"So I just have a few questions from the fans of LH². They're also big fans of yours, Prince Tay! Isn't that great?"

Tay frowns. "Are they scary?"

"The questions or the fans?" I say with a laugh.

Omma fixes me a look. "Neither are scary, Tay. I've read them all, and they're all appropriate."

"Okay." He twiddles his thumbs. "What's the first question?"

"Let me get the video rolling." Levi sits up and points the camera at his face, which immediately brightens into that familiar, breezy grin that captivates everyone around him. "Heywhat'supL-Hearties! It'syourboyLevibackwithalong-awaitedvideoofmySelectionlife!"

He flips it around and zooms in on Tay. I squeeze his shoulder to let him know I'm there.

"Hi!" I wave. "It's Princess Gail here, with my younger, adorable brother, Prince Tay. Say hi, Tay."

"Hi, Tay," he says.

Levi laughs. "Such wit at such a young age! I love it!" He adjusts the notecards on his laps. "So, for the prince, your first question. What's your favourite thing to bake?"

Tay absolutely lights up. No waiting for the baking questions, it seems.

"Beignets!" he chirrups.

"Yes, we couldn't get enough of those, could we, scamp?" I say, ruffling his hair.

"But they were tasty!"

"Yes, they were."

"I also like cherry pie," Tay says, legs swinging. "I like rolling the dough!"

"I hope you bake us a cherry pie soon, Prince Tay! I would want to try that." Levi makes a face, cheeks puffing. "Now… what's the most difficult thing you've ever made?"

Tay deflates visibly. "French macaroons."

Ah yes, macaroons. The little French cookies made with egg white and piped with filling between. Infamously hard to make, Tay and I tried our hand at them a year ago or so, but instead of a perfect little cookie we got huge pancakes. (Consolation: they tasted _so_ good.) Tay tried several times after but all ended up the same, and he's been discouraged ever since. It's not like Tay to entirely give up on a recipe, but he's certainly felt a lack of skill when it comes to these confections.

"Aw, hey. Just because you don't have it now doesn't mean you won't ever get it." Levi beams. "I can barely make ready meal macaroni and cheese without burning it."

"But you just put it in the microwave."

"Yeah, but I forgot to take the plastic film off once. Exploded in the microwave. I was never allowed near it again. Never again!"

To that we all laugh. I'm not sure how exaggerated that story is, but it's at least entertaining to Tay. He eases into the armchair and smiles that toothy smile that melts hearts.

"What's the next question?"

"What," Levi says, "is your favourite thing about being a prince?"

"Erm, baking?" Tay offers.

Levi nods like Tay has delivered the most profound of wisdom. "You're right. He's right, isn't he?" He looks at the camera with round, wide eyes. "That really is the best part. The food! I can attest, even though I'm not a prince. The bulgogi… so good… Moonmoon would be jealous!"

"Moon-moon?" Tay asks, head cocked.

"My bandmate!" Levi says, and laughs. "He wishes he could be as good a baker as you, Prince Tay!"

"And we do have really good food here," I add. "Like blueberry pancakes!"

"Final question!" Levi pauses for the suspense. "Your Korean fans would like you to say hello in Korean! Can you do that?"

Tay shuffles in his chair, demure again. He's been learning Korean with Omma, but it's not very confident at speaking yet.

" _Hello. My name is Taeyang,"_ he recites slowly in Korean. " _I am nine years old. I live in Illéa. My favourite hobby is baking."_

Levi yells, "Wow!" at the same time Omma claps and I squeal excitedly. Under so much praise, Tay goes red in the cheeks.

"Your Korean is so good, Prince Tay!" Levi pipes, then winks at me. "Better than the princess'!"

"Hah!" I say, at the same time as Tay says, "Gail's Korean is really good, Mister Levi."

I nearly gush at how sweet Tay is, but instead stay rigidly polite until Levi ends his video. Then I give Tay a big squeeze. "See? You did it!"

"Yay!" he says, with uncharacteristic joy. "Can we go bake something together now?"

Omma laughs as she stands, offering her hand to him. Tay practically falls off the armchair to give it to her. "We have a photoshoot to do later on today, but after that, we can make some cookies together and give them to all the guards."

"Cookies!" Tay says, and Omma leads him from the room.

Levi leans back against the sofa and takes a deep breath. "Phew! I thought I'd traumatised him."

"He's not easily traumatised, even if he is shy." And thank goodness for that. Otherwise he'd never want to leave his bedroom after the parade. I smile. "You were good with him."

"I was?" Levi gulps. "I don't know. He's so cute! I wanted to squish his little cheeks! But I didn't want to overwhelm him."

"You're right not to. He needs to be slowly introduced to things, y'know?"

He nods. "He has a great sister to help him."

I'm kind of struck at how earnest the statement is. Camera Levi is bubbly persona, talkative and social and never ending in energy, but this moment of candidness is subdued, calmer than what I'm used to seeing. It's a side of him that is quieter, but nicer, in a way. It feels more… him.

"Oh, you," I wave away the compliment and take his hand. "Is the video diary being received well then?"

He squeezes my hands back, drawing me onto the sofa with him. "Very much! The L-Hearties are loving it. They really enjoy seeing what palace life is like. The other day Yamato and I went on a tour around the gardens and the hits were amazing! I should get sponsored by YouTube!"

 _Yamato?_ I want to ask. He's the last person I'd expect to be hanging around with Levi. They're as opposite as oil and water, as chalk and cheese. Reading my face, Levi's eyes glint.

"He's a big fan," he whispers, "though he'll never admit it."

Huh. Who'd have thought? Definitely not me.

"Let's go and do something," Levi begins suddenly. "You and me."

"I haven't forgotten I owe a group outing to you and Kajika and the rest of you for the presentation."

"I meant something more… one-to-one."

I blink, because _duh._ Of course he meant that. He puffs his chest comically large, and I have to laugh.

"Whatever you want to do. I'm up for it."

I have practice today at the rink. It's the first session since my tournament barring, and the first session where we – _they_ – will be gearing up to take on our first home match. I fight to keep the dread from eking away my smile. And then, afterwards, is the not-quite-sleepover at Rose's place.

"Oh, I wish I could right now. I have some work to do." I hope my sympathy is as sincere on my face as it is in my chest. "I'm really sorry."

"That's okay! Whenever you're bored, think of me. I'll cook dinner, do a face mask and go a drag show with you if that's what you want."

"All at the same time?"

As he leads me to the door and opens the way for me, he winks.

"I'm flexible."

* * *

Sitting on the bench, as Zelda would say, _sucks_.

It's not actually a bench, and I'm not actually sitting. In fact, I stand, palms to the plastic wall, eagerly watching the rest of the All-Stars practicing a manoeuvre for next week's game against the Orange County Oranges. But being substituted for what will be only our second game of the tournament punches me in the chest with major Fear of Missing Out.

I've already had my practice today. Now the focus is entirely on match strategy, one that needs Madison, my substitute, over me. The All-Stars flit about on the ice like pucks themselves as they practice goal shots and passes and difficult skating techniques. My shoulders slump. Scoring goals should be my job. I should be out there.

I even made an effort to come extra early today. Twenty whole minutes. That's not easy for a girl like me, but I managed. But Bellona gave me the cold shoulder when I arrived, staying zipped quiet about it all, and worse, refusing to overturn the decision. She didn't make a formal announcement to everyone about it, but they all must know, since they've all lavished me with the most pitiful of sympathetic smiles.

Other than Rose, of course, who promised not to mention it tonight at the not-quite sleepover.

I feel someone come stand at my side and nearly jump, but relax when I realise it's Max.

"You shouldn't be here, you know," I say, nodding my head towards the spectator stands, where Aderyn now sits alone. "They let you in to watch practice, but this is the player's place only."

"I know," he says with that timbre that makes me shudder every time. The long, blond wig and sunglasses make him look totally ridiculous, but nothing can quite damper how dizzyingly attractive his voice is. "But you looked lonely. Miss Aderyn suggested I comfort you."

It's true. "I just hate being here when I should be out there."

He's silent for some time. I've come to quite like his silence. It's contemplative, not awkward.

"How long will it go on for?" he asks quietly. "This barring?"

"I don't know." As Madison scores, I sigh and sit on the bench. Max follows. "Do you think I've ruined my chances forever? What if Madison becomes the permanent member and I become the sub?"

"That won't happen." A tiny smile warms his face. "You're too good for her to bench forever."

I really hope that's true, because this feeling of uselessness is _the. Absolute. Worst._ Sitting back, I exhale a long breath and tap my cheeks.

"Let's talk about something else. Remember tonight's plan?"

He grimaces. When he agreed to take me to the rink tonight, after pretending to spend more 'quality time' in his room with me, he unwittingly also agreed to take me to the not-quite-sleepover at Rose's place. I had to tell Rose sleeping over was impossible – something something Zelda and Aderyn have work in the morning – and meanwhile Aderyn requested the night off to sneak Zelda out of 'an early night's sleep'. It's not a perfect plan, but it does mean we escape the clutches of the palace for a few more hours without arousing suspicion. If we're both away doing 'separate' things, no one would think, if we do get caught, that our absences are connected.

"I don't know…" he mumbles. "It's one thing to be out for a few hours. Another to be out until after midnight. The party…"

I remember the party, and the brownie, all too well.

"This is different. It'll be just Zelda, Rose, Janet, Beverly and I. And it'll be fun! And when I'm there, then you can go out and, erm, do whatever it is you do out late." My eyebrows furrow. "Like, erm, driving your car."

He shrugs. "I'll probably give my motorcycles a whirl."

"And will you drive to anywhere in particular?"

"Probably not."

My cheeks pinch. He actually laughs at that.

"You're so mysterious! No one has that many cars and doesn't have a super big secret!"

"The palace has eight limousines and an entire convoy of 4x4s," he points out.

"Exactly!" I say. "Firstly, everyone and their mother knows Roy likes to wear neon green underpants. He's really not subtle about it. And secondly," I gesture around us, "my super big secret is not exactly a super big secret anymore."

He laughs again, and the sound! Oh, it makes my poor heart thump too noisily in my chest. I wonder idly if his heart does somersaults and backflips when I'm around, and I'm suddenly struck by how much it would hurt if it didn't. I glance at his face, so sternly watching the ice hockey. He's so hard to read. I have no idea what he feels. If anything.

Then there's still his secrets, which he holds close to his chest. _Who are you?_ I think. _What do you want in life?_

When practice ends and everyone leaves in exhausted tatters, Rose, fully showered and hair wrapped in silk, loops her arm with mine. Her All-Stars hoodie fits her so well and matches the star-patterned leggings that hug her legs.

"I'm so excited! Ready to go?"

"Where's Janet and Beverly?"

"Oh, they couldn't make it. Last-minute thing. Told me on the rink." Her smile falters but she gives me a hopeful look. "You… you still want to go, right?"

"Of course!" I chirrup, noticing how her cheeks ease. "You can take us, right, George?"

"Sure," says Max, jingling the keys to his car. "Will you give me directions, Rose?"

"Of course! Thank you for the ride!"

Zelda and Aderyn come up to us from behind. "We'll follow," Aderyn says brightly, with her own keys.

We clamber into our cars as Rose makes talkative conversation between directions to Max. I feed the excuse that I was out with George during the day, hence my, Zelda, and Aderyn separation, but there's no need – Rose doesn't even have a hint of suspicion as to our travel circumstances. We don't have to go far, trawling through the last flickers of LA traffic to reach her apartment in the suburban hills. Max jams the car in her designated parking spot, whilst Aderyn finds a place on the road next door.

I get out of the car and look around, gobsmacked. It's not Beverly's mansion, these apartments, knitted so close together there's hardly breathing space between the buildings, but it's not exactly anything to scoff at, with the gated walls and clean, sleek exterior. Near LA's midtown, it must cost a fortune to stay here.

When Zelda and Aderyn arrive, Rose invites all four of us inside the building.

"Okay, I know you both probably have better things to do," Rose begins to Max and Aderyn both, "but I insist you stay for a drink at least. There's coffee, sweet tea, grape and orange juice…"

"Oh, I-I couldn't," Aderyn jumps in, waving her hands. "It would be incredibly rude of me—"

"Don't be silly! Any sister and-or male companion of Susanetta and Linkle's is a friend of mine." Rose ushers her in and shuts the door so fast they don't have time to think. "And I have plenty of food, especially sandwiches! Everyone loves sandwiches."

"I do know you love your sandwiches, Addie," says Zelda, earning a glare from Aderyn.

Aderyn acquiesces. "All right. Thank you. Just one drink."

Max nods. "One."

Rose takes us to the seventh floor and opens the door to her apartment. I fight not to drop my jaw open. It's a huge, open plan sleek lounge we step into, complete with floor-to-ceiling windows, a fireplace, and a ginormous wall-mounted TV on the right. The kitchen counter is laden with food, like a banquet, and she's right – there are far too many sandwiches for just the three of us. Cucumber, ham and cheese, tomato and mayo.

"Please make yourself at home! And eat as much as you can!" Rose tosses her duffle bag at the door and kicks off her sneakers. "What can I get people to drink?"

"You got cider?" asks Zelda, who takes _make yourself at home_ to heart when she throws her feet up on the sofa.

"Sure!"

"You really ought not to drink, Linkle," mutters Aderyn, though it doesn't seem to do much when Zelda waves her away. "I'll take a hot English tea if you don't mind."

"Coffee," says Max. "Please."

"Grape juice!" I pipe.

Rose opens the fridge, and low and behold, it is stacked with food. I imagine this is what the palace looks like when preparing a feast. Why does she have so much? Is she preparing for quarantine?

Then it hits me. Of course, she invited Janet and Beverly along with Zelda and me. She probably expected to host a big party between us.

And the other two said no.

Heart suddenly filled with lead, I sit quietly as Rose makes our drinks and brings over platters of food to feed us with. Besides an abundance of sandwiches, there are cupcakes, nachos, chips of every flavour, and carrot sticks and dip. Did she really go through all this effort for us? Was she hoping more people would come tonight?

"How long have you two been friends?"

I startle when all eyes suddenly turn to me. Rose waits, eyes wide, somewhat rocking side to side.

"Huh?"

Aderyn scowls. "You really shouldn't daydream so much, Susanetta."

"It's okay," Rose says, smiling. "You and George. You seem to be close."

I exchange a look with Max. "Oh. Er. Yes. We've been friends for… many years! So many years."

He nods once.

Zelda makes a noisy snort-laugh. "Do you remember that time in tenth grade when we went to Six Flags together with our families, and George threw up on you after the Squealer? That was hilarious."

My grin falls. Even for Max, he looks mortified. _Devious, devious Zelda._ But Rose laughs, having bought the story.

"Oh, sorry, I shouldn't laugh, but that sounds so funny! Is that how you became friends?"

"Yes," I say through gritted teeth. "I felt nothing but pity for Vomit Boy."

Max chokes on his coffee. " _Vomit Boy?"_

"Your families must be close, then."

 _I don't know anything about Max's family,_ I think, besides the fake passport names he gave to me and Zelda. _Diane,_ he gave to me. Named after his mother.

"Something like that," Max says cryptically, and sips his coffee.

"You must have such fun at home," Rose says now to Aderyn. "Because you're all so different. Oh. Wait. That came out wrong. I don't mean because you're all adopted… well, I guess I do—"

"I wouldn't say fun," Aderyn interrupts, before Rose can explode. "I would say my peaceful life was ruined when our parents brought home these two gremlins."

Rose cackles at the same time Zelda goes, "Hey!"

"And what about your family?" Aderyn asks. "Is this apartment all yours?"

"Oh, no! Definitely not!" She laughs. "I share with my mom, my dad, and my half-sister, Mariam. But, well." She shrugs. "They're all working right now. Out fighting the good fight doing long late shifts in the Los Angeles Hospitals circuit. No one will bother us, if that's what you're thinking."

A pang of sadness reaches deep into my core. She's… mostly alone? In this huge apartment?

No wonder she wants us to stay.

"I think all the smart genes skipped me," she huffs it, but her tone is anything but light. "They all get to be super intelligent doctors of medicine and I'm out here tackling people on a giant ice rink."

"Hey, that's awesome," I pipe. "You're really good at it. Your family must be really proud."

"They are. But I wish I had half the brains. Then I could be out there making lots of money, and not doing part-time as a waitress." She shifts beneath our attention. "So… want to watch a movie?"

The night continues with us volleying chatter between us during the screening of some comedy. Two hours pass, and Zelda has downed enough cider that her noisy hiccoughs frequently inject into our conversation. Aderyn attempts to confiscate her third with little success.

"I'm— _hic_ — I'm fine, big sister Addie— _hic."_

"You don't sound fine." Aderyn snatches the bottle and Zelda whines. "Do I need to tell you the story of when my ex drank so much peach soda that he hiccoughed so violently he knocked himself unconscious?"

"Your ex?" asks Zelda, face scrunching. "Is this the one you lost in Argentina?"

"No."

"Was it the one who never told you anything?"

She frowns. "That was my ex-girlfriend."

"Then the mean ex?"

"Still wrong."

"Sheesh. How many people did you date?"

"Hmph!" Aderyn's chin rises into the air. "That's not a very polite thing to ask a lady, is it?"

"Good thing you ain't a lady. _Hic."_ Zelda laughs. "You dating anyone, Rosie?"

"Oh, no, not me," says Rose, waving her hands with her cheeks darkening. "I've dated briefly before but they all ended mutually. One day I will live my ultimate dream of living in a nice house, with a good hockey career and a cute girlfriend to cuddle me to sleep every night."

"Hey, funny that, I know someone who is available…" Zelda winks at Aderyn.

Aderyn swats at her. "Linkle!"

Rose giggles it politely away, but blushes too.

"What about you, George? Do you have a partner?"

Zelda mashes her lips together in an attempt not to laugh. I lower my head, thankful that I have a better grasp on my sobriety than my best friend.

Max swirls the remnants of his hot chocolate. "No."

"Pffft. Do you even catch feelings?" asks Zelda.

Max rolls his eyes. "Yes."

"Oooooh!" Rose clutches her fluffy cushion. "Spill!"

"Dated some people. We broke up."

"Wow," says Rose, wide-eyed. "Mysterious."

"Hey, random question— _hic,"_ Zelda bleats. "Would you ever date the princess?"

My soul punches free from my body like I got knocked out by a flying boxing glove. Zelda. _Why._

Max's stoic expression chastens, and his cheeks ripen. "Sure. I guess. If we connected." Quickly he adds, "And if she wasn't in the middle of a Selection, of course."

"Princess Gail is _soooo_ lucky," Rose fawns. "I'd love to date thirty-five girls. Or just to meet them! I hardly ever get out these days. But I'm rooting for Kingsley to win. He's so cool!"

Zelda full-on laughs. Loud, raucous laughs that could take off the roof. Aderyn goes to swat her again.

"And what about _you,_ then?" she teases, which thankfully moves the spotlight away from me. "Have _you_ dated anyone?"

Rose's eyebrows wiggle. "What about Willow?"

Zelda's laughter cuts bluntly off.

"Nice try. It ain't happening."

"Aw, but you'd be so cute together! She's so lovely and graceful, and you're the total opposite…"

"Hey!" Zelda throws a pillow at her. "If you must know, I don't like her like that. The party was a misjudgement. I don't know." She goes quiet. "Lately I've been thinking about how I feel about guys. No big deal."

It's one comment that spins in my head. Zelda isn't exactly open about her dating life; I had to fight to get closure about Willow Grace. But this is new. Zelda, into boys. I sit up. Could recent circumstances have prompted this change? Could she have started seeing boys in a new light… because my Selected are around?

I blink and force the thought away. I'm being irrational. I'm just happy Zelda is finding herself.

"All right, full circle. Spill it, Susanetta." Zelda cocks a finger gun at me. "I know you've been crushing on someone."

I raise my glass of grape juice, clutch suspense by the straws.

"And you shall never know who."

The sky gets darker as we conjure half-truths to hide our identities. As we do, our half-truths become white lies, and our white lies become full-on fabrications, running deeper and deeper until my stomach clenches. Nothing to do with all the sandwiches I've eaten.

Rose has no idea she'd being duped. No idea none of us are who we say we are. No idea I'm princess of the country.

At about eleven, Rose brings out a beauty pack with every single nail colour under the sun, brand new, and seven avocado face masks. I have to make up a lie about sensitive skin to avoid removing my make-up and glasses, but Zelda and even Aderyn happily comply to smear it on, distracting my inner turmoil with the clean scent of paste and the acrid smell of freshly done nails.

Rose paints my right hand as Zelda, Aderyn and Max help themselves to more food.

"This is super fun, you know," she says suddenly.

"Definitely," I agree, trying not to twitch my fingers. "I'm sorry we can't stay for much longer. Linkle and Addie have work in the morning."

"That's okay. I'm really thankful that you all came. It's so much more fun with more people."

"And thank you for inviting us." I beam my toothiest smile. "I really appreciate it. Especially after… well, you know. It's nice to forget about it all."

"I know. It's really unfair. If I were in charge, I would un-ban you in a heartbeat." Rose finishes my index finger and moves to my ring, smoothing the brush over my nails, her delicate hands holding mine still. "I… I don't have many friends. I don't know many people." Her eyes meet mine – hers, so achingly gentle and real. "But I'm really glad I met you and Linkle. You've been so nice to me."

I smile back, accept the compliment, but the truth crawls underneath my skin.

Rose has been nothing but kind, genuine, and lovely.

And I've been nothing but a liar.

* * *

It's late, past one o'clock, by the time I crawl back into Max's room through the passageway. We shed our disguises and I rub off my make-up, including the varnish on my nails. If anyone notices the colour difference, I'm toast, though the physical act feels like stripping away bits of Rose's friendship.

After we're done, Max goes to the door to let me out, but pauses, rubs the back of his neck and looks away.

"Do you... do you want to stay, for a little while? I know it's late, but..."

But my heart is too heavy. Guilt gnaws at me like the jaws of a shark on my pitiful human flesh, and I wish I didn't have to add to it by making Max feel like I don't appreciate his company. It was pretty obvious by the silence on the drive back that I wasn't in much a talking mood.

"Not tonight."

He nods once. "All right. And are you... all right? Really?"

"I'm fine," I say. "It's just difficult keeping all these secrets."

His cheeks pinch in a way that makes me think he understands that more than I realise.

I leave Max's room sombre, and Naomi stands to attention by shoving her mobile in her pocket. She doesn't ask questions, doesn't seem to mind when I divert from the usual route to my room to take the long way around, letting my mind do all the talking in the calm that follows. I can't tell Rose who I really am, but that amount of respect and trust she has for me, as her friend, is a compelling reason to change my mind.

It hurts. Because for the first time ever, I have a friend who's never seen me as royalty. Never seen me as Her Highness, Princess Gail, second in line to the throne. She sees only me, who I am beneath all the pomp and titles. Just… Gail Schreave.

I wander into the Amendment wing. The classrooms are dark and spooky at this hour, but it's uninterrupted that I walk, draw my hands across the walls and contemplate life. What would be the worst thing that could happen if I told Rose who I truly am? Would she go to the press? Would she tell Bellona on me? Would she never trust me ever again?

Those first two things are fixable. Gargantuan disasters PR-wise, but fixable. But the last one… not so much. If I told her and she never forgave me for withholding it for so long, I would never be able to live with myself.

Aderyn's words come back to haunt me. _How long did you think you could keep this up before there were repercussions like today?_

I didn't really think about it. At all. I was so focused on meeting Bellona and then joining her hockey team that the long-term consequences of my actions weren't ever on my mind. How _did_ I think I'd navigate this? How did I think that Gail and Susanetta could live different lives, separate lives?

I stop in the hallway and glance out into the gardens bathed in darkness. Maybe I can only think of an answer now: that the truth is, I may not be able to keep this up forever.

But despite everything, despite the hurt, despite how difficult it is to pull it all off… I'm going to try. I _like_ being Susanetta Vivas. I like having my secret double life, where I can be who I want to be. I like the freedom, the ambiguity of the unknown, and that I'm a faceless nobody in a sea of faceless nobodies. In a life where I've had all my actions and choices monitored, scrutinised, and sometimes ridiculed, this is a taste of the real world, a flavour of gritty beauty I can never experience any way else.

But if that's my solution, to keep it up as long as I can, then I have to harden my heart. Otherwise I'll never be able to manage the two sides of me. I'll never be able to be a good friend to Rose.

I amble a little more before the pitter-patter of a distant noise catches my attention. Somewhere up ahead, along the end of the wing, and the end of the palace. My feet slow, and Naomi stops behind me.

"Something wrong—?"

"Sssssh!" I hiss at her. "Who is that?"

She only shrugs.

I tiptoe forwards, closer to the drawing room. It's too late for anyone to be reasonably up and about, but as I near the low light that spreads forth from the open door, the whispering doesn't solidify to words. It's just humming, slow and calming noises. I don't even recognise who is making the sounds.

I should probably go – this is a private time of night – but I'm too curious for my own good. Naomi matches my pace behind, staying quiet.

I peer around the corner.

Lilly Carter sits patiently on the sofa, arms wrapped tenderly around someone. Their face is buried in her shoulder. She whispers nothing but soothing noises, strange things that make no sense but feel calm nonetheless. For a moment I think I've accidentally walked into a cute, but forbidden love tryst that you see in the movies, but then she pivots her head to kiss the person's head.

Roy's head.

I can't see his face, but his hair is unmistakable. Long, dark, inky. His hands linked together around her waist, gripped tightly enough to make his knuckles blanch. It takes me a moment to acknowledge how close they are. How there is no gap between their bodies.

I gasp before I can help myself. Have I walked into a moment of intimacy? A moment of betrayal? No. It can't be.

But there's no mistaking it. Lilly's hands run through his hair with gentle strokes. Roy doesn't move, but it's in a staccato way that his chest rises and falls.

Without warning, emotions burst inside me in a blizzard. Anger, disappointment, tears that well in my eyes before I can even stop myself. It all comes down to one thing. One ultimatum.

This is betrayal. Betrayal at the deepest level.

" _How could you?"_

Lilly makes no motion, but Roy looks up. That's when I see his face. Dark red, blotchy. Stricken with tears. He goes utterly still at my appearance, with only the slight widening of his eyes any indication of his shock.

"G-Gail—"

"How could you betray Cami like that? _Both_ of you?"

"Betray—?" His eyes dart from Lilly to me, and then he shoots to stand. "Shit. N-No, this isn't what it looks like—"

"What's this _supposed_ to look like?" I snap. "You're—" I can barely say the words. "Y-You're _cheating_ on Cami! Your _wife!"_

"I can't—" I've never seen him so distressed. So… disheveled, frazzled. Burnt up from the inside out. He shakes his head, turns back to Lilly. "I have to go."

Lilly desperately signs. " _Roy, please wait."_

But he doesn't. Instead of giving me an explanation that he owes, instead of getting angry at me or Lilly or the world, he flees, and Lilly runs after him.

I am left alone.

* * *

 **A/N:** [builds bunker, wears earmuffs to protect against screaming] Bwahahahah. This chapter is fun. Is what Gail saw what she thinks? Or is it all a big misunderstanding? Find out... next week...

In these trying times where life's been a bit of a shitshow, I've decided that, for at least the next few weeks, **I will be updating every Sunday.** I'm three chapters ahead writing-wise and I have a good idea where I'm going, so I hope, however small, this can brighten up your days in isolation.

Let me know what you thought of this one! Gail, Levi and Tay, hockey, Max, the not-quite-sleepover, Rose, the lies, and of course the shocking sight of Roy and Lilly together. I've been buzzed to post this since I wrote this chapter, hahahah. I thrive on reactions.

Thanks for reading, and stay safe, buddies!

~ GWA

NTT: _Is he furious I interrupted his cheating session? Is he going to force me to pretend nothing happened?_


	33. Grand Assumptions

**Content warning:** Hi all! Just a quick note to say this chapter contains a scene at the end regarding (male) infertility that may be distressing. Please take care of yourselves; if you don't want to read it skip everything after Gail returns to the palace.

Enjoy!

* * *

"Thanks for inviting me, Your Highness." Ben makes a small bow of his head as I let him into my bedroom. "I promise you're about to watch the best movies in your entire life."

I smile and nod and shut the door, but inside I'm crumbling.

Even sleep can't dissipate the image of Roy and Lilly, together. I cried myself into a distorted slumber, and I woke unprepared for another day where them being an item is a thing. I still can't believe it. It's a betrayal that gashes deeply.

I looked up to him. I looked up to them both.

I sent a note for Ben to come as soon as breakfast was finished, of which I took in my room. I don't want to see either of them. Eventually I will have to leave my room. Eventually I will have to face it, and worse, I will have to talk to Cami. When I told Naomi this morning to turn away both Roy and Lilly if they came to visit, she shared privately that Cami left early this morning for some unplanned trip somewhere in the country, with no mention of when she would return.

Cami already knows, her heart already broken, and I will only inadvertently feed into it.

It's too much to bear for me at the moment, so for now, I will forget. Unfortunately, Ben is too perceptive to be used as a distraction alone.

"Hey, is everything okay? You… don't look like you slept very well."

"I'm fine. I had bad dreams." I pat my bed and click on the remote for the TV to rise from the footboard. "I woke up not feeling so great mood-wise, so, well… I was hoping watching some movies would help."

"It will." He comes to my side slowly, as if not to trip a landmine, before he braves forwards to wrap his arms around me. "If you don't want to watch, we can just talk, if you like?"

Immediately I fall into his shoulder. He's so… comfortable, and all this feels so natural, like I'm meant to be here with him.

"No. I want to see what all the fuss is about."

"Fuss? Oh, no, no, Your Highness. Be prepared to have your mind blown." He sits up and fiddles with the remote, diverting the screen to the streaming software. "The MCU is a huge universe of movies, and I considered at first watching chronologically, by which I mean whichever movie's events happen first in canon, but I think watching them in release order might be more fun."

"Okay," I say, as if any of that means anything.

He laughs. "So we're going to watch Iron Man 1 first."

"I take it his superpower isn't that he's very good with household appliances?"

"Not that kind of iron." He winks, selecting the movie. The front cover has a white man with a sculpted beard in some sort of battle exoskeleton. "Main character is a guy called Tony Stark. Hilarious, witty. Reminds me of His Majesty when he's not scaring the shit out of me."

My smile drops. The last thing I need is a reminder of Roy. But I force a smile, and we start the movie. He's right. This Tony Stark guy is like a more suave and way more intelligent version of my brother, but they share a similar sense of humour, a sense of style and taste. I hate it immediately – my mind jumps back and forth to last night, to seeing Roy and Lilly locked in a tight embrace, to the tears on Roy's face…

I can't puzzle it. He should feel terrible, _guilty,_ that I caught him. But he was only sad, and that was before he realised I was there. Did he feel awful about cheating on Cami? Was it already catching up to him, his lies and deceit?

 _Focus, Gail._ I snuggle closer to Ben to keep my mind on the film, but it's impossible, even tucked in Ben's arms. When he laughs, it vibrates through his chest, through the taut flesh I feel beneath, but not even his hotness can distract me.

About two thirds in, Ben pauses the film.

I raise my head. "What's wrong?"

"I could ask you that," he says. "You're not even watching."

My cheeks burn. I think for a moment he'll be mad.

But all he says is, with empathy, "I can come back another time, if you want?"

"No," I snatch his arm. "No, please. I… truthfully I had a rough day yesterday. I can't tell you what happened. Just family stuff. But… I don't want to be alone right now." I shake my head. "I'm sorry. I'll watch. I'll pay attention."

But he closes Iron Man 1. "How about we watch something else, then? Something feel good?"

"Have you got any suggestions?"

"Princess Diaries?"

I laugh, because he knows me too well. He goes to select the first one, and I rest against him, content and at least able to drift off when I want, because I know the script of this movie like I know the back of my own hand. Credit to Ben, who doesn't complain once at the MCU date cut short – one day, I'll give them a go. But today is not that day.

I must fall asleep tucked next to Ben because the next thing I remember, Mia Thermopolis has long since had her makeover, and Ben is gently shaking me awake.

"Hey, there's someone at your door?"

"Hmm?" I say, at the exact moment the knock rings out. My blood rises – I won't talk to Roy. I refuse.

"Who is it?" I call.

"Sheng," says a muffled Sheng.

I wipe the crud from my eyes and pause the film. Oh. Sheng. I haven't spoken to him since the trip to San Francisco, so I suspect suspicion about my mood had got the better of him. I stand on shaky legs and creep to the door, Ben behind me, so he is very visible when the door opens.

Though Sheng is dressed in a suit, he's also black pea coat, a dark cap and a pair of sunglasses. Kind of like he's about to go on a secret mission.

Ben rests a hand on my waist – I don't fail to notice the protectiveness of the gesture. "Hey, Sheng. What's up?"

He blinks a second too long as he stares at Ben, before his focus lands on me. "Er, sorry for… interrupting. Can I talk to you, Your Highness? Alone?"

"What about?"

"My… my grandmother."

At this I pause, and turn to Ben, feeling terribly guilty for kicking him out so soon. "Ben, would you mind?"

He quickly gathers his jacket and exits the door. He goes to leave but pauses, then leans down to press a kiss on my cheek. I'm pleasantly surprised by the gesture, eliciting a small gasp as he stands back up.

"Another time, Your Highness?"

I nod, and my heart sinks when he disappears around the corner. The cuddles and warmth fizzles with shaded memories as I round my attention back to Sheng.

"What about your grandmother?" I ask quietly. "Is everything okay?"

"Yes, everything's fine…" He trails off. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine."

"You've been so down recently."

And now to add this Roy-Lilly debacle onto it, I don't see myself being happy any time soon. "I'm fine," I repeat. "Did you really insist you cut my date short to ask me that?"

"No. My grandmother…" He rubs the back of his head. "I don't really know how to ask this, but… I would like to ask if you would accompany me to visit her."

Of all the things I thought he'd say, it wasn't that. Sheng's only mentioned his grandmother in passing – he doesn't like to talk about her much – but Senior Mah doesn't have the same reservations. I know she's ill and in hospital for long-term treatment that doesn't seem to be working, and I could gather from the sombre mood Sheng develops whenever she comes up that she might not have long left.

"Erm." I'm so nonplussed by the offer I don't know what to say. "Would… would that be appropriate?"

"Why wouldn't it be?"

"I don't know. I wouldn't want to impose or disturb her or anything…"

"Ever since I was chosen for the Selection, she's been wanting to meet you, actually." He straightens. "She thinks you're a great influence on me. Especially since now all I wear are suits."

That gets a laugh out of me, and the corner of his mouth tips up.

"You, er, don't have to, if you don't want to." He glances down the corridor to where Naomi and his own bodyguard, decked out in full outdoor wear, waits. "I was going now. I can always say you were too busy."

"No." I open my door and head for my dresser as Sheng waits outside. "No, I'll come. It'll be nice to get out of the palace for a few hours."

And it'll be a good way to guarantee Roy won't seek me out.

Not that he's done that. At all.

I have Naomi prepare as well, and after about twenty minutes, myself, the guards and the limos are all set up to take us. Senior Mah joins us as well, dapper in a suit of his own rather than his shabby overalls, but he doesn't try to make more than menial conversation, aware of the heaviness of the occasion. I try to make it a quiet affair – this isn't an official palace visit to Los Angeles Hospital, so I want to make this as covert as possible. No drawing attention. Naturally when we reach the hospital, some personnel recognise us at the front door, but Naomi steps in with her _no photos_ expression and people back off.

I remove my brown knit hat and sunnies inside the hospital lobby. It's clean, the floors smooth and polished, the ceiling arching in a dome to house the multiple desks, lounge spaces, and exits to the different wards. Sheng and Senior Mah automatically pivot to lead us towards the oncology ward. Already my haunches rise. Hospitals have always freaked me out because they're nothing like the quiet, quaint infirmary I'm used to. It's too busy, too overwhelming.

There's a promise of failure here. The palace has the highest trained doctors and nurses we could find, but here with so many moving parts, anything could go wrong. And people have to live with that. People like Senior Mah. People like Sheng.

I frown, realising the stark contrast between us. Sheng's always known we come from two different worlds, but in my palace it didn't seem like it. Now here it couldn't be more obvious.

We pause at the ward reception, hustling with activity. Papers flicking and keys typing. It smells clinical and tangy – soap and water and plastic and blood. The nurses take a moment to brief the guards, leaving Senior Mah, Sheng and I to wait.

"Thank you for coming today, Your Highness," says Senior Mah, beaming as he takes my hands. "We really do appreciate you taking time out of your busy schedule for us."

"It's nothing," I say, but his grip only tightens.

"Nonsense, nonsense. It does mean the world to us, doesn't it, Sheng?"

Sheng nods. "Yes." As his dad glares at him, hastily he adds, "Your Highness. Thank you."

"Then you're welcome," I say, smiling, knowing any other attempt to wave away his kindness will be met with more resistance. "Is there anything I should know?"

Senior Mah lets go. "Ah, my mother… she's a feisty character. Her health might be declining but her mouth runs, often too fast for us to keep up. She, ahem, doesn't have much filter, so I apologise in advance for anything she might say that may be offensive or rude."

"But she'll be pleased to meet you," Sheng adds. I try to read his face, but it's all that stoic poise again, like he's mentally braced.

The nurse allows us into the ward finally, after Naomi relents to just her and Sheng's bodyguard to shadow. I creep in slowly. The other curtains are drawn except for one occupied bed, ensconcing an elderly Chinese lady with no hair and little meat on her bones. I have to withhold a gasp – I knew the cancer on Sheng's grandmother was bad, but not _this_ bad. Liver spots mottle her deep beige skin like a Picasso impressionist painting.

But like Senior Mah said, her eyes are sharp. They latch onto first her son, then her grandson, then me in quick succession, even though I'm standing far behind, hoping to let her greet them first. The sallow bags on her face lift into a grin.

"The princess!" she croaks, reaching up a hand. Her accent is so distinctly from Hong Kong. "She agreed to come!"

"Hello to you too, _Mah Ma_ ," says Senior Mah, pressing a kiss to her cheek. He offers me a seat first before grabbing one for Sheng and himself. First he says something in Chinese – I hear my name. Then, in English, "This is Her Highness, Princess Gail. Your Highness, this is my mother, but you can call her Grand Mah."

I take the reached hand. "It's lovely to meet you."

Grand Mah's wary eyes settle on Sheng. "Has my grandson been behaving?"

Sheng's back straightens. "I don't misbehave, _Por Por."_

"He's been exemplary," I confirm.

"Good! Then I'll let you give me a kiss, _Syun Jai!"_

Sheng reaches down and kisses her forehead. It's a quick, fragile gesture, one borne out of little affection and more tradition. Respect for his grandmother than anything else.

"Have you done that to the princess, yet? On the lips?" she asks.

Sheng goes red. " _Por Por—"_

She gasps, looking at me. "You mean to tell me _Syun Jai_ hasn't even kissed you yet! What kind of gentleman is he?"

Senior Mah says something in Chinese – by his tone I can tell he's telling her to be polite. Grand Mah clucks her tongue.

"She may be royalty, but she is just a girl. A very pretty one, at that! One that my grandson is in love with!" She winks at me, and I giggle because I don't really know what else to feel. " _Jai,_ get her something to eat. A snack. She looks so thin and pale!"

Both Sheng and Senior Mah go to protest, but she silences them both with a look. Senior Mah sighs, looks sympathetically at me, and says, "I'll get a bag of chips. Won't be long."

He hops off to what I suppose will be the hospital vending machines. I know I don't look my best – minimal make-up, a sickly pallor from my fluctuating emotions. But she's gutsy to point it out, to me of all people. It's funny to think someone like her and Sheng are related when they don't act alike whatsoever. I don't even really know what to make off the fact that she thinks Sheng is head over heels in love with me when he's so hard-faced most of the time.

 _But maybe she knows what I don't,_ I think.

"You should be romancing the princess," Grand Mah says to Sheng, hands tracing patterns in the air. "Not taking her to hospitals. It is the opposite of romantic here!"

" _Por Por,_ you said wanted to meet her."

"Does that mean you invite her here? No! You ignore me and you take her out to dinner and you spoil her." She shakes her head. "I am sorry on behalf of my grandson, Princess. He is very much like his father. No brains for love."

Sheng chastens with that uncharacteristically red, sheepish expression. Barely three minutes here and she's already ripped into his Selection strategy, and I can't help but feel a little bad for him. If this is what it's like when I'm here, what's it like when I'm not? I straighten, deciding to come to his defence.

"Oh, er, well, he took me on a date recently."

Sheng goes dead still as Grand Mah's eyes blaze.

"He did? When?" Then she says something in Chinese to Sheng, and whatever is it, he goes deeper red in the cheeks.

"Two days ago." It's a lie, but I'll pull from the truth to make it. "After we got back from San Francisco, Sheng asked me to a picnic in the gardens, and it was very lovely and sweet."

"A picnic, huh? I suppose that's nice. A grand dinner would've been better."

"Gail has been to many fancy dinners," he says straight-laced. "The picnic was unique."

She slaps his arm – it's not hard enough to hurt, but the sentiment behind it is. "I raised you better than to speak back to me. And you call her _Her Highness!_ "

"No, it's okay," I chime, before Sheng can correct himself. "I said he can call me Gail."

"Aw, well that's very sweet of you." She pats my hands with her thin, bony ones. "You really must eat more though. All those fancy dinners and you still too thin. Have _Syun Jai_ take you on another picnic and you eat, even if it's those fattening Illéan burgers and fries."

That actually sounds kind of tasty, and Sheng and I exchange a glance. Before I can help it, I've cracked a smile and started helplessly giggling, and even Sheng has slipped his unfeeling façade to show a smile of his own. Though it quickly diminishes to nothing.

Senior Mah returns with a bag of chips – Cheetos, the grimiest of kinds – and I chew on a few to satisfy Grand Mah as she painstakingly describes her day of lying idly in bed, nurses occasionally making polite conversation, and even one moment where they had to fiddle with her catheter (brain bleach, please). I don't miss how the entire time, she tries to plug Sheng, reminding me numerous times of his handsome good looks, his strength, even his moral compass, and though I can definitely agree on all those things, it starts to feel like she's selling a product more than person. Sheng is even more on edge than normal, ramrod straight in his chair and never once speaking unless spoken to, less he incur another gentle slap on his arm.

And gentle as they are, it seems to have an effect on him. As the conversation goes on, and Grand Mah interrupts him to scold him, a sudden understanding washes over me. Sheng's always been trying to find his place in the world. He's always worried he's unworthy. That's why he broke up with me in the first place.

This is the reason why. This is how he was raised. Perfect, or nothing.

And it makes me sad. So sad Grand Mah catches onto my dampening mood and tries to ply me with more Cheetos.

When visiting hour ends, we are asked politely to leave by the nurses, and I stand.

"It was really nice to meet you, Grand Mah."

"You call me _Por Por_ now, okay?" When she opens her hand, I give mine, and she takes them in a weak grip. "You are very sweet to visit me. Thank you, Your Highness. It is much nicer to have you here than it is to watch you on TV. Please come again with _Syun Jai_ soon. It is funny to see him get so flustered by you! Hahah!"

I smile and thank her again, stand back to let Senior Mah say his goodbyes.

"She's a character," I say to Sheng.

He sighs. "Yeah. An exhausting one."

His honesty is a breath of fresh air. I nudge his side. "So that's where you get it from, huh?"

"Very funny."

But I watch the little movements of his facial muscles. How his brow dips. How his lips crush together to form a wan line. How there's a shadowed cast over his eyes, like the thick clouds before a stormy rain. It seems like the comparison is a reminder that he'll never be good enough. And it's anything but funny.

* * *

The limo pulls up to the palace. Senior Mah, as always, forgoes protocol and hops out first to open the door for me in the palace courtyard.

I'd nearly forgotten about the drama of last night in those blissful hours away, but it thrusts into the forefront of my mind when I notice Roy, standing dead still on the grand palace steps, hands clasped together in front of him in wait.

"Gail," he says, in a voice that wavers up and down. "I… I've been waiting for you."

Sheng exits the car and bows. "Your Majesty."

"I don't want to see you right now." I loop my arm forcefully with Sheng and march passed, Sheng dragged along. "Come on, let's go."

"Wait." Roy catches my other arm at the top of the steps. "Wait. Please. We need to talk."

"No we don't."

"We do. I… Please don't make this difficult."

"Me? _I'm_ being the difficult one? Okay, Roy."

" _Please._ I… I know what happened. But I need to explain something very important to you."

I spin around so violently Sheng nearly trips. "Why don't you explain it to me here and now, then?"

Roy bristles. I can tell he feels awkward with just the guards, let alone both Sheng and Senior Mah.

"That's not going to happen."

"Then I don't care—"

" _Damn it, Gail!"_ he yells, causing me to flinch. "Just follow me. Alone. _Now."_

My heart palpitates for all the wrong reasons. I shouldn't feel scared to follow my brother – shouldn't feel angry or smug, but all these emotions battle for dominance, and the result is a litany of sensations so overwhelming I have to stop and take a moment to breathe.

 _Does he want to grovel?_ The thought enters my head as I reluctantly peel my arm from Sheng and follow Roy into the palace, up stairs and through hallways until we're well and truly secluded. _Is he furious I interrupted his cheating session? Is he going to force me to pretend nothing happened?_

"Why are we here?" I ask sharply, all defences on.

He's taken us to the third floor, to one of my favourite wings to visit when I'm sad or scared. The Schreave wing isn't much used. Dark green wallpaper to complement grey carpets and burnished gold chandeliers and window frames. When dignitaries stay, they're put here, because one particular hallway houses our most beautiful portraits of every royal that's ever walked these halls. From the very first that was Gregory Illéa and his brood, hanging nearer the entrance, to the controversial figures of Clarkson and Diantha Schreave, hidden in the middle, and finally to us, currently hanging on the back wall in a large, gilded frame. The masterpiece.

Roy moves towards it, not looking at me when he waves at the guards to stay at the hallway's front. I swallow my worries and tiptoe behind him, passed doors to bedrooms. Passed my ancestors, who watch down with intense, judgmental gazes.

As we come to the family portrait, my haunches rise. I remember the day we had it painted, years and years ago when Appa was still alive. He towers over us in a strapping three piece suit and the royal cloak, one of his hands on Omma's waist in her _hanbok_ and the other on Roy's shoulder. A much younger Roy. He was eighteen when they painted this, to commemorate his birthday, and I was only seven or eight. You can tell by the gap-toothed grin on my face and the height difference between me and Omma, with her hand hanging loosely on my shoulder.

No Tay. No Cami.

Roy pauses at the portrait. I come to stand by his side, though I don't want to. I don't want to give him any reason to believe that just because we're standing at this particular painting gives him any right to do what he did. If anything it should make him feel even more shame that he's tainted our legacy. That this could cause ruin for the Schreave line.

 _What would Appa say?_ I don't dare to think it, let alone say it out loud.

First Roy looks down the hallway before looking at me. His emotions are a wreck, I realise, startled by the deep bags under his eyes and the sallow quality to his cheeks. Like all the life has been sucked out of him. Even his hair is uncharacteristically loose, a long, dishevelled nest with tangles and knots.

"Sit. Please." He offers the nearby settee and perches himself on one end. "I don't want to stand."

I think of being defiant. _I'd prefer to stand,_ would be the words, but somehow his tiredness catches me off-guard. So I sit, hands placidly on my lap.

"I-I'm not cheating on Cami."

He blurts it so fast I get whiplash.

"You say that," I say, raising my head, "but I literally saw you all cosy with Auntie Lilly."

"No, that… she was hugging me, Gail. Comforting me. God above, I…" He runs his hand through his hair and lets out a forced breath of a chuckle. "I couldn't do that to Cami. I love her far too much."

"You expect me to just _believe_ that?" I snort.

"No, but it's the truth. I was…" he swallows. "I-I was having a hard day."

"Okay? If it was so hard why didn't you spend it with the wife you apparently love so much?"

He laughs again, this time higher-pitched, more hysterical.

"I couldn't go to her. Lilly and I… we share something in that sometimes I don't have to use words or signs to convey how I feel. Lilly just knows. She just understands. She doesn't make things difficult."

My heart leaps into my throat. "Implying that… Cami does?"

"No." He buries his head in his hands. "God, I am doing a shit job at this. I couldn't go to Cami because… because she was part of the reason I was having a hard day."

Now tears are welling in my eyes.

"Oh, no, Roy… I-I know you have ups and downs but please don't divorce her. She's the best sister I could ever ask for."

"I'm not divorcing her. I… well… she might want to divorce me."

"What did you do? I don't understand. If you're saying you didn't cheat on her…"

"Gail." He looks up. Tears have already fallen, blotched his cheeks a sickly red. "Gail, I… I don't think I can have children."

* * *

 **A/N:** Hello everyone! Whomp, there it is. The problem haunting our poor stressed boyo for many, many chapters. I feel I should note that this will be expanded upon immediately in the next chapter, so I won't leave you entirely in the dark regarding this part of Roy's arc. If you do have questions re: Roy (that aren't about the line of succession), please message me. I'll be happy to give you more details. Otherwise, as said, more information will come in next chapter.

I've been reading about infertility for a while, and though I am personally lucky to say it hasn't affected me directly (nor indirectly to my knowledge), it is actually a rather prevalent problem around the world. According to the NHS, the UK's health service, unexplained infertility accounts for 1 in 4 cases. Furthermore it seems to me, at least anecdotally, that male infertility isn't discussed openly enough. It's not a topic I would tackle lightly, though I always knew it would be something that would affect Roy, and affect him deeply. I want my characters to reflect reality even in exceptional circumstances, and hopefully this shines a light on it in a way that is authentic and sensitive. I'll continue to do my research as I write Roy, Cami and their situation, so thank you for your patience and kindness.

Let me know what you think! Ben and Gail's date? Sheng's grandmother? Roy's revelation? As always, reviews and feedback appreciated. Thanks for reading.

~ GWA

NTT: "I can hear her when she thinks I'm asleep. Sobbing into her pillow."

 **EDIT 29th March 2020:** added a content warning at the beginning and elaborated in the A/N. Apologies for lack of clarity when I posted.


	34. Spontaneity

**Content warning:** Greetings all! As with last chapter, there is some discussion of (male) infertility that may be distressing to some. Skip to the first line break if you don't want to read it.

Otherwise, enjoy.

* * *

Of all the things I think Roy might say, it definitely wasn't that.

Suddenly everything makes sense. Suddenly clarity shines a ray on the argument between him and Cami. Their behaviour. Cami's pensive mood. Roy's downcast eyes, so close to breaking point.

He's struggling to have children. What am I supposed to even say to that?

Roy barely moves, barely blinks, as if giving me time to process the words. There's a deep-rooted pain now that is unmistakeable, a dark pool of anguish that hides beneath the bright spots of his eyes.

How could I have not guessed it before?

"You don't _think_ you can have children? Does that mean… not at all?" I murmur, so disbelieving that this is the only thing I can ask. I immediately regret the question when his face crumples.

"The chances are so low that it's not even worth being naïvely hopeful," he continues quietly, staring black-faced at the portrait. "We've been trying for over two years. At first we thought it was Cami, but tests came back and she was fine, and when they tested me…. I don't want to go into details, but there's something wrong with the way my body makes the ingredients for a child. We've been trying IVF but nothing has stuck. Nothing. Yesterday we got the most recent results in, and failure, failure, failure. And it's all because of me."

I know it's selfish to think it, selfish to even feel it, but guilt piles so high on my shoulders from accusing him of cheating. He was using Lilly as comfort, a shoulder, a friend. They never needed to speak or sign to one another – sometimes actions were worth a thousand words.

I startle. _What about Cami?_ The words cross my lips, but I hesitate. _How must she feel?_

"The best medical professionals," he mumbles, cutting my shock in half, "but none of them can help. It's just my useless body."

"You're not useless," I protest. "It's not your fault."

"Not you too," he snaps. "I can't stand it. That's what Cami keeps telling me. I can't give her a child. She pretends everything's okay, but she's hurting too. I know she… I can hear her when she thinks I'm asleep. Sobbing into her pillow."

The image tears a gash in my chest.

"Did she leave this morning because of this?"

"I asked her to," he mumbles. "She's gone to her cousin Sadie's place. So she can mourn without me to remind her what I can't give her."

I don't feel like there's anything I can say that can comfort him. I don't understand his pain, his obvious anguish, but I do sympathise with him. I see old memories of their argument play back in vivid thought, and it releases a pressure behind my eyes, which follow in fat tears dropping down my cheek. He must know how irrational his reaction is. He must.

"Roy, I-I don't know everything, but I _do_ know that Cami loves you and she would never want you to self-destruct like you're doing now. You… you shouldn't push her away."

He glares at me beneath a hooded, pained gaze. "I didn't tell you for your condolences, Gail. I told you so you wouldn't go around thinking I'd cheated on her."

"I don't care." I take his hand, noticing more than ever before how thin the flesh is around bone. "It's not your fault. You can't help the way you were made. If you push Cami away… you're only going to make it harder on yourself and her."

He snatches his hand back.

"And the country?"

"What?"

"The _country,_ Gail! The bloodline!" What bursts from his mouth is not a laugh, but hysteria. "I can't even continue the Schreave name!"

That's the last thing on my mind, but I guess, to Roy, it's one of the most important factors. He is Illéa's king, and he must not believe he's let them down.

"You can adopt."

"I know that. I… we will, if all else fails. But it's not the same. No one will ever accept an adopted child as the true heir."

He stands, shakes his head, fiddles with his hands and paces back and forth in front of the family portrait. I notice the way he gazes at Appa in the painting, in a way that seems like he longs for his moral support and guidance.

"I need to go. Too much work to do." He glares at my down the bridge of his nose. "Don't tell anyone. Don't tell Mother. Don't tell Lilly."

Omma I understand, but… "Don't tell Lilly?"

"She doesn't know anything. I just told her I was having a hard day. Nightmares."

That makes things so much more complicated.

I rise. "Roy, this isn't—"

"I'm not interested—"

" _Forget_ what the public think!" I shout over him. "Forget what anyone else thinks. Forget about the bloodline and purists. If you want a child, you should adopt. It's your happiness, and I will support you the whole way."

But he scoffs. "I don't want your damn advice, Gail." He looks at me like my naïveté is my downfall. "I don't have the luxury of being able to take it."

And then he takes off down the corridor, no matter how loudly I call after him, leaving me to weep beneath the heavy gaze of my perfect family portrait.

* * *

I haven't seen Roy for days.

This isn't the first time he's mysteriously vanished. It's a big palace and he's a busy person, after all. During these last few years there have been days, sometimes weeks, when I wouldn't see him, and I guessed it was just work. He'd come back all smiles and joy and teasing Cami, and I'd feign hurt that he disappeared for so long because he was avoiding me. Roy would confirm it with his exuberant vanity, Cami would use her wit to tease him, and everything would go back to normal.

But now seeing his absence – both of their absences, with Cami still away – at the dinner table carves a hole in my heart. Now I see why they've both been gone so long.

They're mourning what could've been.

I consider going to Roy's quarters to visit – doesn't take a genius to figure out he's not coping well – but I hesitate and chicken out every time. Roy doesn't need me there to comfort him. He made that clear. I'm just a reminder about bloodline and family and unspoken secrets.

But it's been five whole days with no appearance and worry eats at me, even as I play on the ice.

"Too slow, Susanetta!" Bellona barks from the side lines as we practice another manoeuvre. "Your speed is your asset! Use it!"

"Y-Yes, ma'am!" I call back, trying to focus.

I don't beat my record for the obstacle course – cones, helmets, and even chairs dumped onto the rink to serve as opponents. I'm too jittery, too wound up. Bellona gives me side eye as I finish the course and skate to the back of the line, but doesn't make a further comment, and calls up Willow next.

"Hey, what's wrong?" Rose asks as I reach her side. "You've been so distracted these last few sessions."

"I'm fine," I say.

Her cheeks puff. "That's a big lie. There's something on your mind. Is everything okay?"

"Yes. It's just… family things."

"Oh. Is it… Linkle? Or Addie?"

"No, no." Both Zelda and Aderyn have been similarly wary for me since discovering the source of Roy's pain, but I haven't shared it with either of them. It's too personal, even for my best friend and lady's maid, and I know it would only hurt Roy more. "No, they're fine. Just, erm, stuff with our parents."

She rubs my arm in a sympathising way. "Hey, I'm sorry. I don't know what's going on, but I hope it gets better."

 _Yeah. You and me both, Rose._

The training session draws to a finish. Everyone's still in high spirits since the successful match against the Oakland Onions two days ago – the match I didn't go to. All day there's been cheers and chatter celebrating my replacement, Madison, who clocked three goals in the last five minutes, and only Rose, Beverly and Janet are acknowledging that I still exist, that I'm still an All-Star, still part of the team.

"Settle down, ladies." Bellona, with Zelda in her Linkle outfit, skate to the front as the rest of us quiet. "Two wins under our belt is nothing to scoff at, but it's certainly not peak of the mountain yet. I have a different proposition for you all today. Not quite hockey related, but in your own and your team's best interests."

I watch Zelda's face. There's a clear grimace there, even if she hides it under a toothy grin.

"There was a particular group of enthusiastic hockey fans at the last game that you may recognise: the CEO and directing board of All-Star Almonds, the largest almond business in Angeles, and they were extremely impressed with your performance. They've been in contact with us and wish to discuss possible investment and sponsorship."

A little gasp rips from my mouth at the same time it does everyone else's. This is huge for a rink on the verge of being closed and a team on the verge of being axed. It's funding, it's money. It could save the Angeles All-Stars.

"Naturally there's already a connection, both of us being All-Stars," she says with a modicum of amusement. "So they've asked us to attend a formal dinner tomorrow night to introduce us to one another which, if it goes well, will likely lead to a solid business partnership. I don't think I need to say how beneficial this would be for us."

"It… it could save the rink?" Felice asks, with such pure delight it's like someone replaced her with happier, nicer Felice right under my nose.

Bellona's nose wrinkles. "I wouldn't count my chickens, Torres, but yes, it will certainly make things easier for us financially."

"What's a formal dinner?" Willow asks.

"Exactly that. CEO Prudence Dulcitti has invited us – all of us – to a formal dinner at her residence with the others of the managing board. We must make a good impression, and emphasis on _formal,_ ladies. This isn't a house party."

She looks pointedly at everyone. Beverly coughs and looks down, and somehow I think Bellona must know about the madness that was our first team party.

"I understand if you all have obligations and can't attend, but I will need at least a decent number of you to go, for the sake of appearances. All travel and accommodation paid for kindly by All-Star Almonds. So, can I see a show of hands for interest?"

Everyone's hands shoot up. I raise mine too, though I don't know if I can even go to this thing, both because of my double life and because Bellona has technically banned me from participating in team events.

Bellona nods once. "Excellent. I'll email you all details tonight. I'll need quick responses with passport details and current medical records. Make sure to have your dresses and pantsuits ready."

As we're dismissed off the ice, Bellona motions for me to stay. My heart scrunches, but I do as I'm told. Since that last chat with her I've always felt a little less powerful under her strict gaze.

"You're invited as well, Vivas," she says, once it's just Bellona, Zelda and I. "You're not an active team member, but you will still appear at public functions to represent our entire team."

"Right, yes." I nod, though I don't really know how to feel about it. "Okay, ma'am."

"I'm not sure what's going on with you," she says, glancing between me and Zelda, like she has anything to do with my mood. "But whatever it is, you need to put it aside for now. Or talk to me. I don't want it to affect your play. All right?"

 _Talk to her?_ I almost want to laugh. Like I can just say, _my brother, your king, can't have kids and it's horrible to see him in so much pain, advice Agony Aunt?_

She stares at me for a good four seconds before nodding and dismissing us both.

"We're in the shit," Zelda says, when Bellona is out of earshot. "Guess where the mansion is?"

"Please say it's here."

"Las Vegas, actually."

" _Las Vegas?_ That's—that's ages away." About five hours drive, and definitely a hotel overnight.

"They're flying us out, but time isn't the only problem now… it's the airport."

I wince. We still have Max's fake passports, but we've never used them at official ports. Are they even going to work? Will they fool Illéan security?

"I was thinking we say screw it." She holds my arm back before we get onto solid ground. "As long as the passports work, that is. We'll tell the palace we're going to Las Vegas for a day."

"You know they'd never let me go without guards."

"That's why we tell them _after_ we're gone. Forgiveness and permission and all that jazz."

It's risky. Besides security issues, Roy will totally _freak_ when he realises I've upped and left.

But I haven't seen him for days…

It would be better if I wasn't even there right now. He doesn't need me to comfort him. I'm just the reminder.

"Okay." I take a breath. "Okay, yeah. Let's do it."

"Wait, really?"

"You thought I'd say no?"

"Obviously. You always say no to spontaneity."

"But if you thought I'd say no, why did you ask?"

She shrugs. "Because then you can't complain that I'm not thinking of hair-brained schemes to get us out. Now to convince Aderyn."

Aderyn, however, is not so happy, when we tell her in hushed voices in the middle of the Glendale Ice Rink parking lot. She stops four paces from the car, wind cutting through her long, dark green jacket, and spins to face us.

"No, no, and absolutely _no."_

" _Pleeeeease,"_ I say, hands clasped together. "Please, it will be so good of us to go!"

"You know why we can't go," she says with a scowl. "It's too dangerous—"

Unfortunately for her, Rose appears behind us then.

"Hi! Oh, sorry, didn't mean to startle you, Addie." She raises her hands placatingly as Aderyn winces. "Just wanted to say I'm really excited about the Las Vegas trip tomorrow! You're all going, right?"

"We _want_ to," Zelda says, glaring at Aderyn.

"I-It's just, Linkle is a minor, and there's no adult to accompany her personally."

"I'm an adult," I say, promptly ignored.

"Why don't you come along too, Addie?" Rose asks, head tilting to one side. "I'm sure Miss Strike wouldn't mind, since you're right, Linkle is still too young and will need an escort."

Aderyn blanches "That's not—"

"What a great idea! You can come too, Addie," Zelda adds quickly. "Not like our parents will mind, will they?"

"T-They'll mind!" she splutters, and we all know she's not talking about our shared fictitious mom and dad. "Las Vegas is so far away—"

"We'll be there and back in twenty-four hours," I say, to Aderyn's deeper scowl. "Hotel is covered, remember?"

Rose makes her eyes as large as saucers and clasps her hands together. "Please, Addie?"

"Yes, _please,_ Addie?" Zelda asks, pouring a little teasing into her voice.

She glances at me – I give her a very princessy, _do as I say_ look that crumbles the adamant expression on her face.

"You three are all troublemakers."

That's not a _yes_ , but it's not a _no_ , either. On the way home, Zelda, Aderyn and I discuss plans to faux-kidnap Aderyn along with our trip, making a threat of 'employment termination' should she refuse, and so our little plan to go to Las Vegas is hatched. Suddenly I'm really excited – I've been stuck in the palace really since San Francisco, and it'll be nice to leave and explore without the idea of the palace breathing down my neck.

At least, from up close they won't.

* * *

Back home, we climb through the tailor's workshop window and separate from there. I sneak into a side room to get changed from my sweatpants into a cute grey sweater and pink overalls, and plait my hair. The last thing I want to do is for anyone to see my sweaty and gross clothes, and I start to think it's all in vain until I turn the corner to my quarters and see a figure waits outside my door. White blonde hair, straight back – I don't need him to turn around to figure out it's Ansel.

"Hello!" I chirrup, startling him.

He spins. "Oh, Your Highness… I…" He adjusts his tie. "I was told by your guards you were having a dress made."

"That's right. It was a big, poofy pink dress. For the ball."

"I can tell. I've been waiting four hours."

"Oh, sorry. What can I help with?"

"I wondered…" He seems to get a mental grip on whatever haze is bothering him, and stares me directly in the eye. "I wondered if you would like to go on a date."

"Oh." It's the last thing I was expecting. From _Ansel,_ of all people. He and Soren are similar in looks and mannerisms, but where Soren doesn't seem to care most of the time, Ansel seems to care _a lot_. He wouldn't ask me on a date lightly. "Sorry, that came out wrong. We can go on a date now, if you like?"

"Yes. That would be… good."

I loop my arm with his.

"So what did you have in mind?"

"Oh. Er…"

"Shall we go for a walk?" I suggest.

"It's dark."

"Yeah. It'll be spoooooky. And you can protect me if I get scared, okay?"

He grimaces but nods. "All right."

We have a passing servant fetch his coat as I grab mine (it's pink, obviously). Have to admit, Ansel in a pea coat is rather dapper. I dig a little deeper in my heart – hurting as it is right now, it won't stop thinking about hot boys. Though I wouldn't classify Ansel as _hot._ More… sharp. And I don't know if I find that attractive.

Then again, he's asked me on the date. Maybe the feelings go the other way?

Outside the cool air tackles my fleece leggings with a vengeance, but we walk, mostly in silence, along the paved path that cuts through the courtyard until we reach the fountain. Usually there are photographers catching every inch of action from the Selected boys, and me, but there's no one today. Just the contented quiet rustle of leaves.

I glance at Ansel's face. Guarded, as always. Vigilant, as alwayser. But this time, in the darkness, I can detect a hint of vulnerability in them. There's just something about the way his gaze lingers on the trees as they sway in the wind or the thick clouds that blot the night sky that makes me think his mind is occupied with thoughts. Worries, even.

"So what's up with you?"

He sheds that look immediately as he fixes his attention on me. "What do you mean?"

"You seem a little out of it tonight."

"I'm not."

And that's the end of the that, apparently.

But I won't let him escape so easily.

"You asked me on a date and you're not even trying to romance me, so something's clearly bothering you."

He rolls his lips. "I just think I haven't taken the opportunity to get to know you better."

"I mean, you're still not really taking that opportunity, are you?"

He stops. "Would you prefer we talk, then?"

"I'd prefer whatever you'd prefer."

He doesn't like that answer, judging by how his brows dip. I can't help but giggle.

"Ansel, stop being such a worrier." I slap his arm gently. "I'm not a science experiment. Just be yourself."

He goes to reply, but a loud laugh cuts him off. It's not close, more a short distance away, right in the centre of the maze. It sounds like… JJ?

"Is he lost?" I say, grabbing Ansel by the arm and dragging him towards the hedge maze.

But as I approach the exit I spot him not alone, but with Lilly. _Lilly, who is not cheating with Roy._ At least now the thought of her doesn't cause my blood to boil. Here she looms over JJ, arms crossed, expression smug, as his hands clutch his knees with loud panting breath. I shove Ansel inelegantly into a bush, me going next, so we can spy— er, _happen to oversee_ the conversation unfold.

" _You win,"_ he signs, still laughing. " _I thought I could have beaten you."_

" _I've been here so many times I could do that maze with my eyes closed, backwards,"_ Lilly taunts playfully, " _You have no hope beating me in a race."_

She's fully clothed in formal wear – floral dress, heels, but the soles are speckled with dirt, and her skirt is tangled with leaves and even ripped in the small corners. JJ's suit is ruffled, his shirt untucked. The comparison between their signs is noticeable, with JJ being as new as he is, all his signs are slow but deliberate, compared to the fast, almost sloppy delivery of Lilly's signs.

"Why are we hiding?" Ansel whispers. "What are they saying?"

"They were racing through the maze," I supply.

"Okay. But why are we hiding?"

Honestly, I don't know. I'm just surprised to see both JJ and Lilly so… jovial. In the circumstances it almost seems wrong – Lilly may not know specifics but she knows that Roy's having a hard time – but it's nice to see they're enjoying the moment.

" _Next time,"_ JJ promises, wagging a finger at Lilly between signs. " _Next time I will beat you."_

" _I'll hold you to that,"_ Lilly teases.

" _I must bring Easton here."_ He spells his son's name carefully. " _We can learn the route together."_

" _You should. He'll love it. I can show him the route tomorrow, if you like?"_

" _He does love a good challenge."_ JJ stands, looks awkward. " _Though maybe not tomorrow."_

Lilly frowns. " _Why not? The weather will be wonderful."_

" _It is…"_ He hesitates. " _It is actually my wife's birthday tomorrow."_

 _His wife?_ I think with alarm. _Since when does he have a wife?_

Lilly shakes her head and looks away, embarrassed. " _I'm so sorry."_

" _No, you did not know."_ He waves away her concerns and runs a hand through his wild blond hair. " _But I think I need to start teaching Easton the importance of respecting anniversaries for the deceased."_

Oh.

"What? What is it?" Ansel asks.

I relay the information quietly to him. Ansel doesn't look like he knows what to do with the info but peers through the foliage.

"He doesn't wear a ring. He's never worn a ring."

JJ looks equally distressed, but for completely different reasons. I missed a few signs talking to Ansel, but as JJ signs, " _I've taken tomorrow off work,"_ I can assume Lilly asked something about our lesson tomorrow – which is thankfully no longer going through. " _So I can visit her grave."_

Lilly rubs her arms. Suddenly all animate conversation between the two has frozen stone-cold.

" _I really am sorry,"_ she signs, meek and close to her chest. " _If I had any involvement with her passing…"_

" _You did not have any involvement."_ JJ clarifies, and I breathe a gentle sigh of relief. " _Rebels do terrible things whether they were influenced by you or not. It is not your fault."_

" _Thank you, but it will always be my fault."_

The conversation dries. Lilly shakes her head, and her blonde ringlets fly. She signs quickly, swiftly. " _Anyway, this was fun. Thank you."_

He goes to argue, verbally, but she's too fast and dashes off, leaving JJ alone. I can't read his face. It's hurt, but also it's in deep thought, almost as if he wonders whether Lilly was involved after all. I'm missing a piece of a puzzle here, but I can only guess that JJ's wife died because of rebels. And if it was recent, it's the rebels I know and hate. The Voice herself, maybe, had a hand in it.

I don't like to think about it.

As I quickly translate to Ansel, JJ sighs, runs a hand through his hair, and then says loudly, "You can come out from behind there now."

I cut off midsentence and both Ansel and I go ramrod straight. With a grimace, he stands and emerges from the bush, and I follow, head bowed.

"How did you know?" I ask.

JJ inspects us with a sharp but not disappointed gaze. "You're much louder than you think, especially when I'm having a conversation in silent sign language and you're trying to translate verbally."

"I-I apologise," Ansel croaks out. "We weren't… we weren't really trying to eavesdrop…"

"Hmm." JJ's minor amusement is giving me hope that he's not too angry. "No, it's all right. It's not unusual to be out on dates in the garden, and I'm not exactly trying to keep any secrets about my wife. I'm sure many people have made assumptions because I have Easton, anyway. But it's very impolite."

"I-I'm sorry, too," I squeak.

"Thank you." He clucks his tongue and swaggers off, but not before saying, "I'll accept your apologies in the form of another essay that I'll assign you both next class."

He goes before either of us can object. Guilt riddles Ansel's features.

"We shouldn't have watched in like that."

"No," I agree – I thought they were going to be pranking each other or making history memes.

"Let's forget it, then. It's none of our business." He offers his arm, which I take. "Shall we go back inside?"

"Okay. Want to watch something?"

He wrinkles his nose. "As long as it's not basketball. What did you have in mind?"

"I'm feeling _To All the Boys I've Loved Before_. The one with Noah Centineo."

"… Who?"

"You'll see."

Resolving to tuck the information of JJ and Lilly's conversation away, I pull Ansel back inside.

* * *

 **A/N:** Hello everyone! This one was fun to write purely because it's got a bit of everything: royals discussing bloodlines, invites to a fancy dinner, hair-brained schemes for spontaneous trips to Las Vegas, eavesdropping...

The last scene with Gail and Ansel was partly inspired by Slytherwitch's mini Ansel drabble, so thank you, based slyther. You cool.

As always, I encourage you to leave a review, stay hydrated, and finish your homework (I got my eye on you, rysa and llama).

Thanks for reading!

~ GWA

NTT: "Now Sheng. I know most of you don't like guys but that man is _hot."_


	35. Flying Beneath the Radar

I grunt as I wake up. "Huh? What?"

I'm in bed. My bed. There's a blanket tucked over me.

Ansel is at my side, gently shaking me awake. His arms fall as he sits up.

"Good morning."

I sit up. My dressing robe is still on over my silk nightgown, and the TV is still up from the footboard, but it's off. Yesterday, after our brief walk in the gardens and one (eaves)drop of conversation, Ansel and I got back inside, went to change into some PJs and then met back up to put on a romcom. I don't really remember much of the film, even if I've seen it a million times.

"Oh." I rub my eyes. "I'm really sorry. Did I fall asleep?"

"Yes." Ansel's hair is also dishevelled, a stark change from its neat, one-sided waves. "You were leaning on me and I didn't want to wake you by moving, but I must have fallen asleep too."

"Oops." I giggle, but Ansel doesn't return the sentiment. Hmm. "What time is it?"

"Seven."

"Well, thank you for not waking me. I slept great!" Except my arm hurts because it must've been in an awkward position. "Did you sleep okay?"

"Fine," comes the short answer. "Woke up a few times."

"And, erm, are you… are you okay?"

Because he definitely doesn't look it. That same hurt – that same vulnerability, like the baring of his naked soul – is back. This time in the form of a chilling aura that surrounds him, sags his shoulders and dulls the quality of his eyes.

It's funny. He shared a bed with me, and any of the Selected would be elated to say that, to brandish this win in front of the others like a peacock fans its feathers, but Ansel only looks… disappointed.

"I'm just tired," he admits, sliding off the bed and retrieving his own dressing gown from the back of my sofa. "I should go, before anyone gets any ideas."

"What ideas would they get?"

He gives me a _look._

I puff my cheeks. "Hmph! Let people try to get funny ideas. I'll fight them myself."

He lets out a single, breathy laugh. "Now that I would like to see."

He bows his head and leaves me alone. I'm not sure what to make of the evening before – even if I fell asleep early into it, that was supposed to be Ansel's idea of a date, but he didn't do much romancing or sweet-talking or anything, really. He didn't even try to put his arm around me and snuggle when the movie started. And I love that cheese.

 _Something's up with him,_ I think. Seems like something is up with everyone at the moment. _When I get back, I'll need to get to the bottom of it._

I call for Aderyn to help me wash and dress and sort myself out. She comes quickly, furtively, not speaking much but obviously tense, and she has good reason: today's the day she, Zelda and I bail the palace for the sponsor's dinner tonight.

The bathroom fills will a delicious jasmine scent as Aderyn prepares oils for the bath and rests fresh towels on the hot rack. The muted pink tiles match the gold faucets and accents that glimmer in the natural light of a round, blurred window. I sit at the vanity table pasting my hair with conditioning treatment that will wash off in the bath.

As Aderyn runs the hot water, I comb a sticky hand through my hair. "Are you prepared for tonight?"

"Hmm," is all she offers as she swirls a hand in the bath to check the temperature. It mustn't meet her standards, as she cranks up the tap to _hot_. "Gail… what if I lose my job over this?"

I turn around in my stool. "I told you I wouldn't let that happen."

"And if you can't stop it? I allow myself to be pulled into this scheme of yours… they might see it as irresponsible."

"You don't have to go," I say. "You just have to pretend you never heard of a single smidgen of my plans to run away."

"But I couldn't let you both go all the way to Las Vegas by yourselves…"

It's obvious the decision wars inside her. She turns off the tap and checks the bath temperature, then pours some oil and a little bit of glitter into the water.

"I'm eighteen," I say. "I'm old enough to escort Zelda."

"With great respect, you've been waited on your whole life. You really think you're just _okay_ to go out by yourself? Into the real world?" She shakes her head. "That's not the point, anyway. You— _we_ really shouldn't be doing this."

She ushers me forward forcefully and, after letting me undress and sink into the bath and bubbles, dumps shampoo onto my hair and aggressively kneads my head.

"So many bad things could happen! You could get caught, or you could get killed, or you could get completely drunk and end up in another country!"

"Erm, well— I'm going whether you're— in or not," I say between gritted teeth. "So please— can you let up on the hair?"

"Oh, sorry!" She sighs. "I know I can't change your mind and I reasonably can't do anything but go with you, but… you'll be careful, won't you, Gail?"

"I'm always careful."

She deliberately stops, comes around the other side, and glares at me. Point made.

* * *

I make sure to let Max know before we leave, so at least one of us knows where we are in case of emergency. His room door is shut, the windows are closed and the walls are thick, but I lower my voice just in case, explaining to him as he makes his hands busy.

"So, erm, I don't know… just don't tell anyone unless we're gone for more than a day."

"All right." He doesn't look entirely comfortable with the situation but doesn't make a move to veto me. "Are you sure you don't want me to come?"

"No. Besides not being invited, the palace security _would_ kick your butt if they found you had disappeared." I rub my hands together. "One last thing: the fake passports you got us for ID. You're sure they'll pass security checks?"

"Yes," he says. "They're as good as real."

And that's all I have to go on. The word from a person I don't know if I trust yet.

Before long, Aderyn, Zelda and I gather ourselves and lock the door in the tailor's workshop to clamber out of the window undetected. Only when we've snuck to the car park and driven out, Zelda glaring at the gate team, do we celebrate this small win with a boogie.

"Eeeee, I'm so excited!" I chirrup in the backseat, clapping my hands as Zelda ramps up the music. I can hear the suitcases in the back clank when we breach a small hump. "I've always wanted to go to Las Vegas!"

"You've never been?" asked Aderyn, turning back around to face me.

"Nope! Too shady, Roy always said."

"Hmm." Aderyn turns back around to face the road. She's not in her palace uniform anymore, obviously, but she looks so weird in casual wear – jeans and a green sweater. Her hair is down. "As long as you don't wander into the casinos, or nearly agree to elope with some random man you met in the bar of the strip club who says he's really rich but is actually as drunk as you are, it's fine."

"That… sounds like a story," says Zelda.

"One of my exes," Aderyn supplies. "I was there."

"Of course."

"You've had so many exes," I say, leaning forwards. "Remember Dominik? One of my Selected? He dated around a lot too. Fifteen girls in twenty short years."

She wrinkles her nose, which I see in the mirror. "Gee, am I supposed to be flattered at the comparison with the Selected you eliminated first?"

"Oh, well, he was a little too forward. I can't see you being like that…"

Aderyn juggles her head. "I haven't dated fifteen people, but I have lost count. I was on a lot of dating websites for a while. I suppose none of mine were ever _really_ serious besides one or two."

"Not anymore, though?" Zelda asks at the implication.

"Not so much. I don't have time anymore." She sighs. "I'm a hopeless romantic at heart but this job keeps me so busy."

"What if one of the hot guards asks you out? Or one of the hot maids?" I ask giddily. The idea of a workplace romance is so cute!

But Aderyn grimaces. "Oh, no. Then we'd have no boundaries! That would be awful." She sees me in the mirror and lifts her chin. "If we're talking about romance, why don't we talk about the Selected that are still here?"

My chest constricts and I blow out a raspberry. "Oh, pffft, you can watch all of that on TV. Let's talk about Zelda instead!"

"No," is all she says.

"I remember at the not-so-sleepover," I say, "you said you were thinking about boys."

She stiffens. "Yeah? So? Girls can't like boys, now?"

"I didn't say that." I frown – there's an edge of defensiveness to her words. "I don't know. Just seems like there's a lot on your mind right now."

"Yeah. And I want it to stay there."

After an awkward pause, she sighs.

"Don't take is personally, Gail. I just… don't want to talk about it."

I bow my head, embarrassed I asked at all. I didn't think it would be such a big deal to her – I had a scary hunch that maybe my Selected had prompted the revelation, that she was thinking about one of _them,_ but maybe that's not the case at all, and I feel terribly selfish for the thought even crossing my mind.

"Okay."

"Sooooo," Aderyn interjects, as if the whole conversation never happened, "who are your top pick for the Elite?"

"The Elite?" I laugh, if only to get Zelda's odd mood out of my head. "That's so far away."

"It's five boys away, Gail."

Because of course, there's only fifteen left.

"I… I haven't really thought about it yet," I mumble. With everything that's gone on, there hasn't been much room in my head for the Selected, as terrible as that is to admit. "It seems so far away still…"

"Well, you'd better start thinking soon," Aderyn says. "I know the public are hungry to know who your top picks are."

I sit back, head resting against the seat. Who do I even want to choose? I have time – I know I do, since my last elimination wasn't that long ago, and there's still five left before the last ten – but it feels like the moment is dawning on the horizon, the rays eking out a gentle touch of warning in my chest.

"I'm thinking about thinking about it," I say.

"Which is not the same as thinking about it," Aderyn says. "Whoever you choose may end up being your husband."

And that is too weird a thought.

I evade her questions like an anime character evades magic gun bullets, and we pull into the long-stay airport parking lot. We grab our hand luggage, double-check our make-up and disguises, and head over to the domestic terminal, where the rest of the team waits.

It's not hard to miss them, even in the crowds amassed. In the lobby our little group huddles together, most of them wearing the All-Star sweaters like Zelda and I am. Some don't have suitcases, instead choosing to bring large backpacks or even handbags instead, though I have to wonder how they're bringing their evening wear in a tiny clutch purse.

"Oh, hey!" From behind, Rose comes up to us. She's in her purple sweater too, over a pair of denim overalls. However, her hair is even more styled than normal – an afro decorated with small flowers. It reminds me of Romilda. "Did you just get here too?"

"Yep!" I say.

"Oh, good, I won't be last alone." She breaths an exaggerated sigh of relief. "Okay, I took a really long time messing with my hair in the bathroom earlier but my sister Mariam took a wrong turn to the airport, so really it's not my fault at all for being late. For someone who lives and works in LA it's like she doesn't know the area at all! Hopeless with directions!"

I'm just glad I can't be singled out as _the_ _last one._ Like Bellona needs a reminder about that.

"At least you're here now." Aderyn nods at Rose's afro. "The time spent prepping was worth it. Your hair looks really nice."

Rose takes a moment to process the compliment before it rides across her cheeks. "Oh! Thank you. You look really nice too, Addie! I'm glad you decided to come."

I can practically see the retort in Adeyrn's head. _Not that I had much choice._

We join Felice, Beverly, Janet and the others, before Bellona ticks us off an attendant list.

"All right, we're all here now. Ready your passports."

We head towards the security line. As Aderyn and Rose chat, I pull out my fake passport. Even with his recent reassurance, worry claws its way up my throat. What if the security guard sees through the deception? What if the passport is exposed as fake – if I'm exposed as fake?

The picture is good. The text is flawless. It's a good fake. A really good one. But is it enough?

"Hey." Zelda nudges me, and then compares her own fake passport to mine. "Max better be telling the truth or we're going to be in serious trouble."

"You're telling me."

We make it up to the front of the gate. The security guard calls us forwards, ready to scrutinise the passport. Nervously, I tiptoe forwards and hand them the passport with the identification page open.

"Susanetta Vivas," the guards recites with a bemused expression. Must think my name is funny. "Hockey trip as well?"

"Y-Yes, that's right."

Their eyes return to the passport. There's a pause for a second. Two.

"Go through."

My heart melts in my chest as I walk through the gate and into the next line for baggage scanning, dragging my suitcase. I wait a moment, but Zelda comes right behind, no trouble.

"Well, shit," she mumbles, shutting the page and tucking it in her pocket. "He really did it."

"Yeah."

But the question persists. _How?_

I've still got to think about the Elite. Max is either on the very much _yes_ or very much _no_ , and right now, I don't know which side he's on.

* * *

The journey will take an hour and thirty minutes, so Zelda and I entertain ourselves by playing Pictionary. For my first time in economy, it's not bad – surrounded by friends and teammates as we settle through the flight and gossip about what's to come – but I miss the space and privacy of my own jet, the ease at which I can relax without having to worry about everyone around me. And the noise. Everything is so loud – from the people to the announcements to the engine. I whisper this to Zelda, and she calls me _bougie,_ of which I resent but reluctantly concede.

Aderyn and Rose are in front of us and chat the entire time. As Zelda designs her masterpiece drawing, I catch snippets of their conversation.

"I remember you saying you worked in servitude, is that right?"

"Yes," Aderyn says, who isn't very good at lying so we made her backstory as truthful as possible. "I work at the palace, actually, as a maid."

" _Shut. Up."_ Janet whirls in her seat to face them through the gap in the seats, jaw open. "You work at the _palace?"_

"Y-Yes," says Aderyn.

"Wow, that's so cool!" Willow says as pushes Janet aside to let her see. "Have you met the royal family?"

"In passing, yes." I can hear the strain in Aderyn's voice. She turns around and eyes me, as if willing me to chime in and help. As I remorselessly stay silent, Aderyn scowls. "I work with the team who _deals_ with the princess."

"You work with the princess?" Beverly says, in the middle row adjacent to Janet, with sparkles in her eyes. "You have to tell us about the Selection! What's it like?"

"Busy," Aderyn says.

"Tch. Don't skimp on details now." Even Felice, next to Beverly, has joined in. "Come on. What's it like? Are they all rich snobs?"

"They're actually rather down to earth. The royal family, I mean."

Willow sighs. "I would kill to live in Princess Gail's shoes for a day. Because I bet she has the best closet."

"She has a huge shoe closet. Most are from designers, but some from the palace tailors."

"How many pairs?"

"Over fifty."

As Willows sighs, I sniff. That's an exaggeration. Definitely. _Right?_

Zelda withholds and snort as she looks at me. I shrink a little further into my seat, thinking, _Please do not kill anyone for my extensive high heel collection, Willow Grace._

"Have you met any of the suitors?" she asks.

"Some," Aderyn hedges. It's funny – none of these people know they've actually met one. None of them know he went to Beverly's house. "Not more than, again, in passing."

"Which one's looking to win?" asks Felice.

"I thought you didn't watch the Selection?" says Beverly.

"I-I don't," says Felice, scowling.

"Hmmm." Aderyn tilts her head. "I'm not sure. Princess Gail hasn't been exactly forthright about her top choices at the moment." Which is true.

"Team Kingsley!" Rose pipes.

"Yes, girl," says Janet. "But also Team Ben because I slurp memes for breakfast and this guy is pouring my cereal."

"But he's _soooo_ unclassy," Madison, from behind, says. "All he does is talk in meme? There's no depth to him and he has no serious side! It's so cringe!" I feel a pang of defence rise up in me, but I can't focus on it as Madison continues. "Now Sheng. I know most of you don't like guys but that man is _hot."_

"Pffft, if you like boring stoic ruggedness, I guess. We get it, Sheng. You're Mr Broody." Felice crosses her arms. "Everyone loves a funny man so I don't get why there isn't more hype for Avian. Why hasn't she dated him yet?"

"What happened to _not watching the Selection?"_ Beverly teases.

"It comes on occasionally when I have nothing better to watch. Sue me."

"Well I, for one, won't stand for this blatant Levi erasure," Beverly pronounces, then sighs. "I _live_ for his diary entries. I can't wait until we get to see his deeper personality."

"His music's shit," Janet chirrups, causing Beverly to whack Janet's arm.

"Parker and Kajika are cool," says Zelda quietly, but she's mostly ignored. It's sweet that she's sticking up for her friends.

"Did you see Nicholas get eliminated in that last reel, though? I did _not_ see that coming!" Willow sighs. "Now I have to put all my stock into Elliot."

"You only like him because he's a hockey player," says Felice. "Doesn't replace a personality."

Willow gasps. "You're so mean! He's so lovely!"

"I love my son Soren so much!" says Wendy, another defence sub.

"Soren and Ansel are literally the same guy and you can't change my mind," says Janet.

"I'm surprised you're not gushing over it, Baby Su."

My head jerks up at Felice's voice. Somehow, someway, as if an evil author is dictating the circumstances of my life, the entire team is looking at me with expectant eyes. Felice has an eyebrow raised.

"Come on, the Selection's your sort of trashy entertainment. Plus all the hot guys. You don't watch it?"

"Oh, er." _What do I say? Yes, but then accidentally spill something that clues them to my identity? Say no and be the uncoolest loser forever?_ My cheeks are flaring from the unwanted attention. "S-Sometimes."

"Who's your favourite to win?" Rose asks kindly.

"I, er…" I swallow and blurt, "I-I don't care who wins, only that Princess Gail gets happiness because she's amazing and I love her."

There's a long pause. Zelda gives me an agonising, _what the heck was that?_ kind of look that dives deep into my essence as a person to ask my soul why I am the way I am.

"Holy shit," Felice says, "I thought you were straight?"

"P-Pardon?"

"Are you crushing on Princess Gail?"

I wish then for the devil himself to whisk me away to another plane of existence, which must be better than here, where my whole team now thinks I am crushing on myself.

"N-No— I just think she's really cool…"

"It's just a girl crush, Felice," says Beverly, swatting her. Then she sighs. "Oh, but you're right, Princess Gail is sooooo cute!"

"I'd do her," says Janet.

"Me too!" says Willow. "And then I'd steal her shoes!"

Zelda's mouth is mashed closed to stop herself from laughing so hard that her lips have started to bleed.

"What about you, Miss Strike?"

Rose directs the question to Bellona, who sits reclined a row ahead of all of us, earphones in and book open on her lap. She jolts at the mention of her name, pops out an earbud, and turns towards us all.

"What was that, Lamb?"

"The Selection? Do you watch it?"

Bellona wrinkles her nose. "No. Not my thing."

She ends the conversation by replacing her earbud.

"See?" says Beverly, nudging Felice. "That's a good example of how you can pretend you don't watch it, too."

"Shut up, Bev."

Thankfully we land on Las Vegan tarmac before I can get interrogated, embarrassed, or recognised. I unlock my phone when the wheels hit the ground – surprisingly, no texts. Okay, no suspicion aroused yet. I pop aeroplane mode back on, just so it doesn't explode at an inappropriate time.

Bellona hoards us out into a bus that takes us to the hotel on the lip of the city's edge. The rooms are plain, furnished nicely, but nothing to squee over, so obviously All-Star Almonds haven't sprung for the fanciest of five-star hotels. With two a room, Zelda and I are together – Aderyn agreed to share with someone else so our identities would stay secret, leaving her with Rose. We bundle into their room to dress and do our make-up (more than usual), and I'm careful not to fiddle with my face so much that my true princessy identity is revealed.

"Oh, that dress is _so_ cute!" Rose picks at my dark pink tulle and holds it up to me. She looks for the label, and finds none. "Who made it?"

It's one handmade by my tailors, knowing that any designers would draw attention. Her eyes bug out as she takes the intricate floral detailing and shimmer of the fabric. "My— er, our aunt," I say quickly. "Yes. She takes old dresses and makes them new."

"Wow, I wish I had your aunt!"

Zelda struts out of the bathroom in a black skater dress and red heels. She twirls. "Accepting compliments."

"Oh, Linkle, you look beautiful!"

As Rose gushes over Zelda's dress, Aderyn twists a make-up brush through a pot of concealer powder and dabs it to her cheek.

"Are you excited?"

She frowns. "I suppose."

"You have to look more excited than that."

"Funnily enough, not really a party girl." She snaps the case shut and fiddles with mascara. "I don't dress up all that often."

"Well I think you look really nice."

And she does. Aderyn has chosen a much less decorative outfit, as if deliberately trying to melt into the background. Her dress is a plain brown, not really _formal_ formal, but suitable for many occasions. Besides that, she's layered her make-up thickly on her face with natural, beige colours, and it's with the same skilled hand that does my make-up that applies just the right amount of mascara to her eyelashes. When done, she tugs on the hem of her dress.

"I feel out of place."

"Please don't." I take her arm and squeeze. "I really appreciate you doing this for me."

"I know. It just feels strange to be doing this with you, of all people."

"Oh, Addie, you look stunning!" Rose says, as she and Zelda come over to inspect. "Gosh, your winged eyeliner is perfect! How do you do that?"

"Practice," Aderyn says, reddening.

"Rose, when are you going to change?" I ask.

"That's the thing. I don't know what to wear!" She rummages in her backpack for two dresses – both rather wrinkled. One is a deep red asymmetrical with a suggestive slit down the side. The other, a bright turquoise tea dress. Both so different and conveying entirely different moods. "I couldn't decide!"

"Hmm. I guess red better fits the mood?" offers Zelda.

"True… but I so love the colour of this one!" Rose admires the turquoise. "I need the iron them both."

"I prefer the red one," says Aderyn. "Given the occasion, you want to go for a classic look, and red is just one of those colours that always works. And it will show off your figure."

"Oh, what figure?" Rose waves her away, and then gasps. "You should try it on!"

Aderyn baulks. "What, me?"

"Of course! You have a great figure! It would look wonderful on you!"

Aderyn blinks and blushes enough that she actually cannot speak for a few seconds. Her jaw works in an attempt to. "No, I— I couldn't wear that— I'd look silly— it won't even fit me—"

"We're the same height." Rose presses the dress into Aderyn's hands. "If I can't wear this then at least I should be able to get to see someone else wearing it!"

"Wear it!" I chant. "Wear it! Wear it!"

"Come _ooooooon,_ big sister Addie!" follows Zelda.

Scowling, Aderyn shoulders her way into the bathroom. I've never thought Aderyn, my lovely modest lady's maid Aderyn, would go near a dress like the one Rose gave her. But I'm giddy with excitement, and she emerges a moment later.

We're stunned to silence.

"Woooooooooow," I say.

Because Aderyn looks like she could kill with a look. Rose is absolutely right – it hugs her figure just right, and despite not having much curve, it accentuates all the right angles. The fabric needs to be ironed, but aside from that, it's perfect, and sheepishly she rubs her arms.

"I-It's too much—"

"No, no, no, no, no!" I cut her off. "You look so good!"

Zelda nods. "You look like you're about to steal James Bond's heart, reveal in an epic plot twist that you're the bad guy, pull a gun from your pantyhose and start kicking ass."

"Oh, hush." Aderyn swats the air. "Erm, Rose?"

Rose blinks, but she is entirely taken by Aderyn's appearance.

"You look so beautiful."

My eyes dart to Aderyn – she blushes.

"Thanks."

I look back at Rose, who is still staring.

Oh _heck._

Zelda passes me a glance that says, _you think we just started something?_ before noisily announcing that she needs Adeyrn's help styling her hair. Aderyn zips into action, skittering to the vanity table and gathering Zelda's fake hair in seconds. The moment is forgotten.

Except for Rose, I notice, as I pretend to do something else, who stares glassily into the space Aderyn was standing before.

 _Hmm,_ I think. _Maybe we did._

* * *

The Almond mansion is huge.

Crammed together in a hired bus, we _ooh_ and _aah_ at the view of an expansive manor house, complete with gravel courtyard that skitters against the churning wheels. Far enough from the city and suburbs, but close enough to see it on the horizon, the red brick of the house is a dark, ominous colour in the night time. It pulls up to the door, where the CEO, Penelope Dulcitti, waits with open arms and a flaring dress.

"The Angeles All-Stars ladies! Welcome, welcome!" Her voice is as high-pitched as I imagine her almonds are sweet. "We're so excited to have you here!"

Everyone tumbles out of the bus, smoothing wrinkles and procuring only the finest grins from our repertoires. I don't have to fake anything – I'm too hyped to describe the occasion. Sure, I wasn't at the match versus the Oakland Onions, but I'm reaping the benefits, and there's something different about attending parties as an up-and-coming hockey star compared to already upped-and-comed princess.

Penelope shakes all of our hands. When she comes to me, she bobs her head up and down. "I hear you scored the winning goal versus the Franciscan Ferrets?"

I try to act modest about it, in case Bellona is watching. "That's right."

But Penelope looks up to the cloudy sky. "I wish I'd have been there to see that. Crying shame they don't televise second team events. I'm sure it would've been amazing to watch!"

We're shepherded into the mansion proper, taken to a large dining room connected to a lounge, where the furniture has been moved aside to accommodate all of us. I feel like I've stepped into Downton Abbey, with the ornate rugs, luscious velvet curtains, and an intricate marble fireplace that blazes to stave the cold air. Rose is in awe of everything, pointing out the ceiling art to the smallest detail of the cutlery.

"Look! They've folded my napkin into a swan!"

It's nothing new for Zelda, Aderyn and I, used to palace life, but I can't help but find Rose's enthusiasm infectious. Soon everyone is admiring the wallpaper or running their hands along the glossy oak coffee tables. In between it all, Penelope's board of directors introduce themselves and make small talk – it turns out all of them are massive ice hockey fans, and now recently all fans of us, the Angeles All-Stars women's second team.

"We considered inviting the first team too," mentions one, an old man with a beard as long as my dress, "but they don't seem to be doing great in the league tables at the moment."

A sore subject, but we all politely laugh it off. It's a stark reminder how much we need this sponsorship to go through. Because the first team sure won't get anything like this soon.

When dinner is called we're seated in no particular order, so it happens, but sheer luck and chance, that I'm placed near the end of the table, left of Zelda, opposite the bearded man, whom now I know is Frank Whittler, head of factory operations, and right of Bellona herself. To both Bellona and Frank's sides is Penelope, at head of the table. Chatter is explosive, even as the starters and mains appear on the table of leek and potato soup, and roast duck, or broccoli puffs for the vegetarians. Wine splashes and spills between as laughter ricochets off the high walls.

I don't get much word in edgeways, surrounded by the mouthy powerhouses of Bellona, Frank and Zelda, but when people ask for my opinion, they get it.

The dessert arrives – a strawberry Pavlova served in a cutesy round champagne glass – as Frank finishes his wine. "Such a shame to hear you're not on the active team at the moment, Miss Susanetta! Bellona has been rather generous when describing your abilities on the rink."

 _Really?_ I can't even imagine it, but as I glance sideways and Bellona is nodding, also finishing her wine, I end up sitting straighter.

"Thank you, that's very kind."

"She's one of our best." I don't miss the edge in her voice. _If also one of our most wayward._

"Will you be playing the Orange Cove Oranges?"

"I don't know," I say, looking to Bellona for an answer.

But she dips her spoon into the meringue. "Vivas has been playing better recently. We shall see."

 _That's not a yes,_ I want to say, but obviously don't because I value my meagre sports career.

Frank nods. "And Bellona, is it true the team has been given royal summons?"

 _This_ makes me flinch. Royal summons? What royal summons?

Bellona narrows her eyes. "I'm not sure what you mean?"

"Surely you must know Princess Gail is a huge fan of yours. She's very public about it."

All the food I ate turns to stone in my stomach. Oh heckity _heck._

"Ah. This," says Bellona, sitting back. "Yes, I'm aware. It's true I personally have had royal summons, but not the team. We're not that elite yet."

"Royal summons!" Penelope pipes in. "Miss Strike, you are going up in the world!"

Bellona waves it away. "Thank you, but I declined them all."

A little ripple of shock goes through their faces. I have to pretend that too, even though I know she has. My mouth goes dry as I realise I may finally get an answer to why she declined – why she broke my little determined heart in such a small, but significant way. _It must be because she's too busy,_ I think. It's the only explanation that makes sense.

"Why ever would you do that?" asks Frank. "The royal family's backing could be substantial!"

"Perhaps," Bellona hedges. "I don't believe in the royal family."

Wait… what?

"You think they're fiction?" Penelope laughs.

Bellona laughs too. "No, sorry. This wine. I mean I don't support what they stand for." She swirls her glass contemplatively, as if the liquid sloshing against the sides calms her nerves. "Monarchies are such archaic, outdated notions of government. Why can't we just get rid of them completely? Would anyone really miss the central vortex of wealth that they've been hoarding for centuries?"

My hand shakes, curls into a fist, but not out of anger. Not out of rage. I hold it steady with my other hand as the rest of the room's sound drowns into a muted din. Withholding a shaky breath, my ears tune to the rough tumble of her voice. Every jump of her words.

"All of these royals are pathetic. I don't see them paying taxes. I don't see them going onto frontlines for war, or working their ways up in the world. Why should we look up to them when all they do is sit in that expensive palace of theirs and make decisions for the rest of us?"

To my horror, Penelope hoots. "I agree completely. I have to admit, I cannot stand King Roy."

"Yes, I find his personality irritating," agrees Bellona.

A crack rips inside my chest. For a moment I think I've gasped too hard for breath, only to realise it was like my heart physically recoiled from the words. Completely rational words they're entitled to say, but a jolt nonetheless.

Bellona… hates Roy? Hates _us?_

She continues. "Once an irresponsible prince, always an irresponsible prince. The caste dissolution was a nightmare."

"Terrible, really," agrees Frank. Suddenly I feel very small. "I'm gladder for it, but the wave-by-wave method was clunky at best."

"And you'd be lying to yourself if you thought Princess Gail's Selection was anything more than a sensationalised farce to increase popularity of the royal family," Bellona says. Each syllable sticks a dagger in my body. "Especially in this political climate, with the rebels. She has _no_ idea of the reality she's facing, and they're using her as a face for this entire disaster."

Without thinking, I grab Zelda's hand. Her mouth hangs open from the last words she was spouting to Aderyn on her right, and she swivels to face me.

"What—"

I think she must see the pallor, the ghost in my eyes. That something is terribly wrong. She goes quiet.

"They've shoehorned her into debates and author talks and pride parades, but let's be real, all interviews with her in and around those events were scripted. Every single line. You can tell she's not being genuine. No one is ever that happy."

Penelope and Frank nod sagely. But all those interviews – all those talks and Reports, I _was_ being genuine. That's just me – eternally optimistic, maybe overly so, and I enjoyed every moment at those events, even if they were hard to see at times. Tears gather at my eyelids, and lump forms thick and heavy in my throat. _Don't cry, Gail,_ I tell myself. _It's the biggest giveaway._ But the slander feels more than personal, more than an attack against me and my family – it's pulling free the masquerade mask of my favourite person ever, my idol, and throwing it into a conflagration, leaving only the ugly remains of the person beneath.

I don't like this person. I don't like this Bellona.

Bellona mustn't notice me, because she shrugs. "I can't stand it with that fake _sorority girl_ attitude. I'm flattered she's a fan but I will never be a fan of hers, not when she's set for life doing nothing to earn it, while the rest of us have to struggle to make ends meet."

My hands are shaking so bad Zelda has to squeeze them hard to stop. Tears are blurring in my vision. I look down – a fat tear drops into my dessert, mixing sweet cream with a salty tear.

Zelda suddenly stands up. "Su, you don't look so well." She ushers me up and turns me away before Bellona and co. can look at me. Immediately she embraces me into her shoulder, and I clench my jaw so hard to stop crying out. "Sorry about this. Where's the nearest bathroom?"

Penelope must point it out as Zelda pushes me towards one of the far doors. I clutch my stomach in an attempt to fake sickness. We find a little cubicle, barely big enough for one, with a lonely porcelain toilet, sink and mirror, and Zelda locks us in, snatches all the toilet paper she can to dab my face, wetting with tears.

"Hey, hey, it's okay. It's fine. She's full of shit."

But I'm still shaking. Every part of me, and it won't stop, no matter how many words of comfort Zelda plies me with. There's something so monstrous about the situation – about the casual way Bellona spoke, clueless to how much it was peeling layer after layer of my fragile heart away. There's barely anything left now. Just a hole.

I loved her. I _idolised_ her. Before and after she became my manager.

Now all I feel is agony. She never replied to any of my summons for the pure fact that she hates me. Loathes the ground I walk on. I wish I could say it was what I represented – archaic monarchy, maybe – but it's more than that. It's me. My personality. Who I am, deep in my core, beyond my title. And there I was, thinking she was a sun in the sky. I've been made a complete fool in a matter of minutes.

"Gail," Zelda whispers forcefully, pulling me out of my chaotic mind. "Hey. Answer me."

I dab tissue on my face. It comes away with some mascara. "W-What?"

"Repeat after me: Bellona is full of shit."

"I-I'm not going to repeat that."

She sighs. "It hurts, okay? It's gonna' hurt for a while."

"Do _you_ still idolise her?"

"Hell no. No one insults my best friend and gets my admiration. But it's different for me. She's not making it personal. For you…"

My eyes drift to the mirror to my right. My make-up is ruined, streaky with tears and blotchy with dots of errant mascara. I may have contacts in and glasses on, but I so clearly see _me_ beneath it all. Me, Gail, nothing but a speck of dirt beneath Bellona's boot.

Even after everything, she respects tardy little Susanetta Vivas more than Princess Gail. And that's before everything about Roy.

"I just—" Zelda's grip tightens. "I just need you to know she's one of millions of people with stupid hot takes. She has no idea."

"S-She said _I_ had no idea—"

"Of course she does, and I'd like to see her become the face of this country to the entire world. I'd like to see her lose all of her privacy to the press. I'd like to see her smile for hours and hours on end even though she's exhausted from caring so much about everyone around them."

I sniffle, bringing a tissue to my nose, running like a river.

"I-I can't go back there, Zelda. Not after she said all that about me. I just… I just want to go home."

"I—" She curses under her breath. "Yeah. Shit. Let's just bounce. These people are all boring anyway. We'll get a taxi back to the hotel, and I'll go tell them you're not feeling well."

She unlocks the door, and I grab her arm.

"Thank you."

A soft smile emerges across her lips, but it is ridden with pity. So when she leaves, I lock the door again, drop the seat lid and sit and let the tears fall despite having a disguise to maintain, an appearance to uphold. But at this moment I don't care.

 _Bellona has broken my heart._ Her words replay, and more tears fall.

Suddenly my phone in my pocket is a huge weight. I left the bubble of my home for this, and despite everything, I reach inside and deactivate aeroplane mode.

After a moment, messages come in. Hundreds of them, one after the other. Then the phone call app flashes – I missed a hundred of those, too.

I scroll through everything. Most are from Durante and other security members. Several are from Naomi, detailing how they broke into the workshop and discovered us vanished. I come to the most recent.

Texts from Roy. Tons of them.

 _Where are you, Gail?_ and variations. They get more and more desperate as time passes. _Gail, please answer. Gail, I'm worried. Gail, are you ignoring me?_

At the bottom, his most recent text, from an hour ago.

 _Please, please, please. Please text me. Please tell me you're okay._

Swallowing my pride, I send a text back.

 _Zelda and I snuck out. We're coming home soon._

 _I'm okay._

When the reality is, I'm not.

* * *

 **A/N:** Poor Gail! Looks like Bellona isn't so _belle_ after all... Hope you enjoyed this one!

This chapter is rather more self-indulgent than normal, but I just loved writing the plane scene. Yes, it was partly inspired by some things y'all have said to me over the course of the fic, hahahahah, but of course I only poke fun in jest. Let me know what you thought of it, and all the other happenings as well. Ansel's mood? Aderyn and Rose? Bellona's, ahem, _opinion,_ of the royal family?

I _may_ not be able to update next week, for the simple fact that I've fudged with the outline and now everything in the next chapter is a little muddled. I should hopefully be able to fix it by next week, but no promises. Any changes, I'll pop them on my profile, as always.

Thanks for reading.

~ GWA

NTT: "Would it be weird to talk to him while I have a bath?"


	36. Bubble Over

Every fibre of me dreads returning to the palace.

I have no more tears to cry over Bellona, over my heart being torn so violently from my chest at her hatred of me, and my family. Empty, hollow, I thought going home would lessen the ache of this personal pain, but seeing the gates open to let Zelda's tiny car onto the long, daunting drive has only reminded me why I wanted to leave. In the scales of my mind, they are two ton anvils teetering dangerously over the edge, but neither outweighing the other.

Hockey was supposed to be my escape from palace life. Now I'm going back to palace life to escape from hockey.

Even then, it's going to be with consequence. Not sure what. I tilt my head out of the window as the carefully manicured trees that parallel the drive blur by.

"Shit."

I jolt at Zelda's voice, only to see her glower resolutely focused on the open courtyard right in front of the palace doors. As she nudges the car closer, I see why.

Rudy looks furious, with his jaw working to hide how clenched his teeth are, and his skin almost as red as his hair. At his side, Captain Durante stands to attention, but even his neutral expression is marred by crossed eyebrows.

Behind them, a few paces away, is Roy. My heart plummets into my stomach; he doesn't watch the car come to a stop, or the engine cut off. He just paces back and forth. Unreadable expression.

Aderyn takes a deep breath. "I'm screwed."

"I can guarantee," Zelda snorts, "not as screwed as me."

Rudy stomps up to the car as we slam the doors behind us.

"You are _grounded!_ " he yells. "Grounded for as long as I can ground you, Zelda Bezuidenhout-Leeuwenhoek!"

"Yeah, yeah." Zelda waves him away and goes to muscle her way through the doors.

Durante cuts into her path. "Do you know how dangerous that is? What you did?"

"I was well aware—"

"You took _the princess with you!"_ Rudy shrieks. " _To another province!"_

Just then, arms wrap around me and pull me into a tight embrace. Roy's scent is so distinct. Like his quarters, when I used to visit, he smells of something heavy and hard. But also like Cami, who weaves into his natural musk even now like they are two people with one soul. His hand rests against my head.

"G-Gail, I—" He shudders, and I realise with a start, as a droplet lands on my scalp, that he's crying. "I was so worried."

I'm still mad at Roy. For a hundred reasons. But in this moment I just hug him back. "I know."

As Zelda ensues a shouting match with Rudy, I blot out the noise to focus on Roy's breathing. He hugs me for another moment before pushing me to arm's length.

"I thought— I thought you'd been kidnapped, Gail. _Killed."_

"I'm surprised you care."

Hurt blinks onto his face. "Of course I care. How could you think that?"

I brush off his arms. "I haven't seen you nearly all week."

"I-I needed space. Time." He shakes his head. "Let's not argue, please. I've been angry all week. I don't have the energy to be angry at you, too."

Honestly I would prefer it. Angry Roy is easier to manage than sad, grieving Roy. His mood could swing one way or the other if I'm not careful.

"I get it. You needed space and time." I cross my arms, looking down. "But I figured you wouldn't care about me because you're so good at pushing out _everyone."_

"Gail—"

"Go on. Tell me that's not what you're doing."

He has the heart to look chastened. "It doesn't matter—"

"Of course it does!" I shrill, cutting right through Zelda and Rudy's argument. They both glance at me. "I don't want to have any conversation with you right now. You're not going to listen."

"Wait, wait." The desperation in his voice makes me pause more than the words do. "Okay. Let's just… talk. Rudy, Durante, Zelda, Aderyn," he shifts his gaze to them, "if you wouldn't mind."

Rudy takes a deep breath but bows his head. "Of course." He glares at Zelda. "We'll finish this later."

"Whatever," says Zelda. She smiles in my direction – a sympathetic thing – and then moves indoors with her dads and Aderyn.

At Roy's gesture the guards give us space, and he offers his arm, and together we make our way through the courtyard to the front gardens. They are just as elaborate, if not more, than the back ones, designed knowing that members of the public can see them even from down the huge drive the leads to the gates. Cami's touch is everywhere – these gardens were her first experience at outdoor design, and I can see it in her favour of wide open spaces, manicured hedges, and beautiful rows of vibrant flowers.

I glance sidelong at Roy. He looks like he hasn't slept for years, but I guess it didn't help that I magically vanished yesterday with no word of safe return.

"I-I'm sorry," he begins. "I… I don't mean to push you away."

"Well you're doing a bad job showing it."

"Gail." He stops, turns to me. "I love you. I love you so, so much. You know that, right?"

My hesitation flashes hurt across his face.

"I know I'm a little hard on you when it comes to what you do, how you appear. I'm just… trying to keep our family together."

"You don't do that by pushing me away when I'm trying to help. You definitely don't do that by sending Cami away—" I don't realise it until I choke that I'm crying.

"I know. I-I asked her to come back. To come home."

I wipe my eyes with my arm – not very polite but I have no tissues to hand and I'm too emotional to care. "Really?"

"Yeah. We're gonna' talk. About everything."

"That's good."

He nods once. "You were right. You were right that I should… I should never have pushed her away. Pushed anyone away." He lets out a choked laugh and I look him in the eyes, realising he's crying too. "I know I'm being irrational and hard on myself, but… it's difficult to look at it from another perspective when I'm the one causing the problem, even if it's not on purpose."

"You're not a problem," I insist. "Don't say it like that."

He lets out a chuckle. Wipes his eyes with his arm too. Tears glisten on his jacket sleeve. "I know. Sorry. I've had a long, hard week deliberating everything and reading up on resources and just… coming to terms that I'll never have my own children, and trying to change my own perspective of that, at a conscious and unconscious level. It takes time. But I think… I think I'll be okay."

I take his hands. They shake in my hold, but I steady them. "That's great."

"You knew that all along though, didn't you? That I was being too harsh on myself."

"Of course. You're your own worst enemy."

"Heh. Yeah." He saddens. "Cami knew that too. She's been trying to talk sense into me for the last few months now. I guess it took one more try to realise it."

"You do have a thick skull."

"Hey." He swats my arm and I laugh. "It's nice to be able to talk about it. You and Cami and Omma and Tay are my most beloved family. I— I cherish you all. Dearly."

I go for another hug, and unlike the one from ten minutes ago, this one is full of promise. Promise that things will get better.

He holds me a moment longer, then lets me go. "I'm going to talk about adoption with Cami too, I've decided. We discussed this route after we married – she wanted to adopt for her own reasons, but I think now she's been even more for it."

"What about the people?" I don't know why I ask. I'm not worried about what they think. But I know he is. "I thought you said there would be complaints about succession …"

He massages his temple. "I came to the sudden conclusion yesterday while you were gallivanting off in Las Vegas that I'm the king, I can choose whichever successor I want. And I… I don't care what the people say. Have an opinion on matters of state, fine, but they do not get to affect my family."

It sounds like he's trying to convince himself more than me, but it's a step in the right direction, and I clap my hands together. "That's great! I'm so excited."

"You'll be godmother as well as aunt. Naturally."

"Yay!"

"But you will not teach them anything bad. Promise?"

I baulk. "I'm not making any such promise."

"That's my sister." Roy takes a long breath. "Now, onto more serious matters. You sneaking out."

Oh. My inner happiness crumbles like a sandcastle under a wrecking ball. "I-I thought you weren't angry enough to have this conversation?"

"Don't mistake me. I'm furious." He glares at me down his nose. "You shouldn't have run off like that. It was extremely dangerous, reckless… and of course Miss Fowler is now implicated. She didn't tell _anyone_ where you were going."

The last part takes a second to register. Aderyn, _implicated._ "I didn't let her," I say, teeth clenched through the half-lie. "In fact, she found out inadvertently and threatened to tell someone before I dragged her along and forced her to stay quiet. You're not thinking of letting her go, are you?

"Should I?"

"No! She's the best lady's maid I've ever had!"

Roy shuts his eyes, rubs his temples. "Gail, it's because I love you that these rules are in place. You cannot bend them to your will. That includes blackmailing our staff. Understood?"

"Are you going to fire her?"

He stares at me a moment. "No." Relief pours through me. "But it's a strike against her record. Another, and she's out. Durante will be having a talk with her as well."

I gulp, hoping that, for Aderyn's sake, Durante is in a better mood than Rudy.

"There is also a strike against Officer Astrauskas' record, too." He means Naomi. "For failing to do her job. However, I'm inclined to keep her regardless because… because she knows so much about me."

"I told her to stay quiet. For you."

"I appreciate that."

The silence overcomes us. Roy sighs.

"I don't want to be mad at you, that much is true, but there are rules for a reason and as your brother and as king, I need to put my foot down. What were you even doing in Las Vegas?"

"Looking around." Like heck am I going to tell Roy about the team.

"As long as you aren't now married to a stranger." The joke falls on cold ears, and he sobers. "Your safety is the most important thing to me, Gail. Please tell me you understand that."

The only thing I understand from this conversation is that my safety comes at the cost of my freedom. I cross my arms. "I'm cold. We should go back."

After a moment, Roy mumbles, "All right."

There's no fight left in him today, but there's plenty welling in me. He can enforce harsher restrictions all he likes. I will disobey all of them, even if it's no longer to go to hockey and instead to prove a spiteful, bitter point.

We amble back together, but separated by moods, the storming river both of us are unwilling to cross. I'm happy that he's feeling better, happy that Cami is coming home, happy we can be a family together again. But one moment of sunshine in these rainy last few days won't change my mind about my freedom. It doesn't ease the absolute terror at the idea of telling him I'm successful away from my princess life, that I'm doing well all on my own. Me a good hockey player would be too much for him to handle.

 _Hockey._ Once it rang a joyful bell in my heart, but now it only foretells fear. Bellona still said those words about me. About us. About my family. Am I expected to just forget about it all? Am I expected to ignore the vitriol in her laughter as I play for her team?

We reach the palace, but my emotions are buried under six feet of dirt. Despite everything, despite all the steps I've taken to cultivate happiness on both sides of the divide, it seems that life can offer me it on neither.

No matter how hard I try.

* * *

Four days pass and as it edges closer to Christmas, I'm gladder for the cooler weather and frost on the ground. It gives me a better excuse to skip practice – not once, but twice.

Settled in bed for the morning, I snake a hand out from my duvet to reach for my phone. Texts from Rose. Of course.

 _So sorry to hear you're still sick. But we did great! 5-3 against the Orange Cove Oranges. I think my eyes were going to bleed with how much orange there was everywhere. One fan was literally dressed as an orange! Have I said orange too much?_

Another match I missed. My poor showing at the All-Star Almonds dinner made everything think I'd caught some sort of bad flu on the flight over, but whether or not Bellona let me back onto the active team for this game, I wouldn't have accepted.

 _That's wonderful,_ I text back.

Typing, typing. Then: _One of the Almond people was there to watch the match. Linkle was talking to them all night. She got a free box of chocolate almonds from them! So lucky!_

Zelda had less reservations of going than I did. Given that she's grounded to her quarters except for lessons and exercise, it doesn't surprise me that she's still finding ways to sneak out of the palace undetected. With her phone confiscated there's no private way to contact her without going down there myself – trying to keep in her dads' good graces I give her space to suffer confinement alone – but she did let me know in a brief encounter in the gardens that Bellona seems to have no idea that the sickness is fake. No idea that I'm doing all this to avoid her entirely.

I can't do this forever. Eventually I'll have to go back. Face to music. Or the rink, I guess. But dread fills every pore in my body at the thought of seeing her face again. She _hates_ me, and she meant every word.

Taking a deep breath, I put my phone on the pink charging stand and call Aderyn.

She appears lightning quick to run my bath. The strike against her record has left her faster at her job than before, but furtive, muted, like all her brightness has been sucked out. I miss the bounce in her step and the conversation on her lips as she runs oils through my hair and folds towels in dead silence, but I know it would be selfish to ask for the old Aderyn. At least stoic Aderyn doesn't let wayward princesses go to Las Vegas.

A knocks cuts cleanly through the quiet, forcing me to raise my head from my ultra relaxing bubble bath.

Aderyn swings to face me. "Expecting someone?"

"When I'm bathing?"

"All the more reason to ask, Your Highness."

It's almost a joke. I shake my head.

She shuts the bathroom door and answers. Muffled sounds. Speaking. The bedroom door shuts and Aderyn pops her head into the bathroom.

"It's a Selected. Jeremiah Hill."

I frown. Why would Jeremiah come to see me so early? Is it urgent? As Aderyn goes behind the screen to fetch my clothes, I go to stand out of the bath, but the cold, frigid air pulls me back under.

I eye my bubble bath bottle. "Would it be weird to talk to him while I have a bath?"

Aderyn goes quiet. "Very funny." Long pause. She leers at me from around the screen. "You're not really thinking of doing that, are you?"

Mind already made, I grab the bottle and pour it into the hot waters, then swirl it with my hand until the foam is brimming over the edge and everything below my neck is completely covered. Then I fix my hair – because even when it's dripping wet and coiffed into a loose bun, I need to look pretty.

"Am I covered?"

"Yes." She shakes her head. "I can't believe you're doing this. You know he's going to tell all the Selected about this?"

"Jeremiah's a gentleman. He'll only tease." I wave. "Send him in."

Jeremiah steps in slowly, uncertainly, before his eyes widen at the sight of me, head floating above the thick, white foam on my bubble bath.

"Good morning!" I greet.

His cheeks pink but averts his gaze and takes a seat on the velvet bath stool. "Should I… be here?"

"Of course! I invited you in. You can't see anything, anyway." I reach to the side pluck two face mask packs from my basket of beauty products. "Want to do a face mask with me?"

The thing about Jeremiah is I know he won't question it, question the situation. He'll go along with anything because he's so cool and level-headed. It's what I like about him. He takes the face mask and we both lather the pink lotion onto our faces. Cool, icy relief washes over me and I slouch in the bath, less self-conscious than I probably should be.

"I take it it's not urgent," I say, after I've smeared the mask on my face. "Whatever you wanted to talk about."

Jeremiah's lips pull to one side, which is quite the sight with the face mask. "It's not urgent, but it is serious."

"Is everything okay?"

"I'm completely fine. No worries for me." He frowns. "It's Ansel I'm worried about."

Ah. Ansel. So nothing has changed since he last stayed in my room.

"What's wrong with him?"

"He hasn't talked to me for two weeks."

That's not very Ansel-like behaviour. I know he's reserved and not much talkative, but he and Jeremiah have been good friends since the debate, at the very start of the Selection. I've seen them together all the time in the Men's Parlour, in the dining hall, basking in the last of the sunrays in the garden. That they're not talking is… weird.

"Did you have a fight?"

"No, he just… stopped talking to me. Every time I go up to him he gives me the cold shoulder. I don't know what I've done." He braces his arms on his knees. "It's stressing me out."

It would explain why, when Ansel came to ask me on a date, he was more high-strung than usual. Jittery, but withdrawn. When I poked him for answers, he told me nothing.

"It could be family issues," I suggest. "Maybe it has nothing to do with you."

"I don't know. And that's the worst part, because he won't tell me anything. I thought… I thought maybe he'd talked to you, or…" He gives me such hopeful eyes – those glittering, multi-coloured gems. It's hard not to have any answers, if only not to disappoint Jeremiah.

I shake my head, and Jeremiah sags. "All right. I thought it was worth asking."

"I'm sure it will be fine," I say, then grin brightly. "Ansel works in mysterious ways. He'll bounce back when he's ready."

"Yeah." But he doesn't seem convinced.

"If it's any consolation, I was planning to ask the Kajika's team on a group date this morning, after my bath. That includes Ansel."

"I can't imagine Ansel on a date," he chuckles darkly.

"Neither." Even though we went on a date, at Ansel's request, but I decide not to mention that. "Still, he's earnt it, along with the others. I'll keep you posted."

Jeremiah sits up, and an easy smile replaces the frown. "Thank you. I really appreciate it." He presses a finger to the face mask – not quite dry yet. "Hopefully it'll bring him out of his funk."

"Time spent with me will bring anyone out of a funk."

"I _am_ slightly more reassured now." He scours me from toe to forehead, with all the bubbles in between. "And amused."

After we wash off the face masks, our skin perky and pretty, and he leaves refreshed, I giggle to myself. I've slept in Max's bed, Ansel has slept with me, and now Jeremiah has seen me in the bath. A Selection can't get any funnier euphemism-wise.

Resolved to help Ansel cheer up, I choose a dress that's wintery but cute, suitable for indoor wear, that hangs down to the floor in silvery shimmer, with long sleeves and cool diamonds for jewellery. When I'm dressed, I psyche myself up ( _Bellona sucks, Bellona sucks, Bellona sucks…)_ and head towards the Men's Parlour.

"Announcing Her Royal Highness, Princess Gail."

All the present Selected stand, and with a jolt I realise how few of them there are now. Half of the furniture is unoccupied, a stark contrast to the beginning of the Selection, when every inch of birch had cards slapped on top, or when the sofas were squished by numerous bottoms. Jeremiah is amongst the crowd, playing cards with Parker.

Ansel isn't here. Hmm.

"Good morning!" I pipe. "It's a brand new day and I am in a really, really, _really_ good mood!"

"Don't hurt yourself," calls Silas.

I stuck out a tongue at him. "I believe I owe a group date to Kajika, Levi, Valerian and Ansel."

Three come forwards. Kajika, Levi and Valerian.

"Do you know where Ansel is?"

Kajika exchanges glances with the other two – Valerian's wince is subtle but Levi's overtakes his whole face – and he ushers us out of the Men's Parlour into the hallway. So Jeremiah is not the only one to notice.

"Not sure. Probably his room? That's where I'd hang out if I wanted to be alone," Levi says. "Seems really bummed out, the poor guy."

"It's been this way for a few weeks," Kajika clarifies.

Valerian nods. "Do you happen to know anything, Your Highness? Perhaps it is trouble at home?"

I shake my head. "I'm not sure what's wrong with him. But he's invited to our group date too. We can try to cheer him up!"

They don't look convinced, but no one argues as we march to the Selected wing first. Levi was right; Ansel's door is open. Except he's not alone.

Rudy, of all people, is stationary at the threshold. Maybe just leaving his room? He's conversing in hushed, but polite whispers as the guards stray a good distance away so no words can be heard. As we approach, Rudy turns – and shrieks.

"Dear _lord!"_ he cries, hand going to chest.

Ansel's head pops out of the doorway. His expression flattens – is that… fear, in his eyes?

"You really ought to announce yourselves earlier than that," Rudy chides. "You half startled me to death."

"Sorry, Mister Rudy," I mumble, darting my gaze between him and Ansel. "What's going on?"

"Just having a chat with Ansel, here."

"Is everything okay?" asks Kajika.

"Everything's fine," says Ansel, in a way that suggests everything is _not_ fine. "Just discussing something private. What are you doing here?"

"We're going on a date!" I pipe. "In a group, because your presentation won!"

Ansel should be thrilled. Ecstatic. For goodness sake, I went on a date with him last. He should be buzzing in his soles about how often he's getting to spend time with me. But nothing. No change of expression. Nothing to suggest a single atom of excitement in Ansel's icy blue eyes. So he doesn't like hanging out with me, doesn't like hanging out with Jeremiah, doesn't like hanging out in the Men's Parlour… what on earth is wrong?

"You should join them, Ansel. You'll have fun." Rudy's stare is particularly hard. "I should be going now. Regrettably the king's sock collection must be washed."

"Thanks," Ansel says.

Rudy's eyes linger on him one last moment, before they rest on me – then they drift to down the corridor, following the pace of his long legs.

 _That was weird._ And fishy. I've had sad moods before but nothing that persisted for so long without some cause – _and_ he has the Selection co-ordinator involved. I consider interrogating Rudy for answers, but he's too uptight and respectful to let his lips fly so loosely.

"Sooooo… want to come?"

Uncharacteristically Ansel runs a hand through his bright blond hair, and it messes up the neat parting. "Okay. Give me a second."

He shuts the door. Levi whispers something to Valerian who nods sagely – I think they must know how suspicious it all is, too.

"No, er," Kajika mumbles, "No Lady Zelda?"

I spin around. It's nice to talk and think about anyone other than Ansel. Kajika's gaze is fixated on the walls as I say, "No Zelda. She's been grounded."

"Oh dear."

"What did she do?" asks Levi.

I grin. "Stowed away to Las Vegas with me without telling her dads."

"You went to _Las Vegas?"_ Levi sounds comically offended. "Where was my invite?"

Ansel exits the room quietly. He's sharply dressed, coldly handsome, but his straight-laced face remains.

"Ready to go?" I say, as chipper as I can.

Ansel just nods.

I am _so_ getting to the bottom of this.

I loop my arm with his. "To the tea parlour!"

Kajika, Valerian and Levi _ooh_ and _aah_ when the attendants open the door to the tea parlour on the ground floor, overlooking the front courtyard. Suitably wintery, wood crackles in the fireplace, warming a comfortable five-seat set up around a squat table, laden with finger foods. There are three-tiered cake stands filled with afternoon tea delights, like miniature sandwiches. With no crusts! I love those cute little things.

Ansel is less impressed. He frowns as he scrutinises the rest of the room, the dark upholstery and cherry-red furnishings.

"It's morning," he says.

"Good observation, Ansel." I tug him towards the sofa and he sits next to me. No one objects – it's like the other three boys don't see him as competition anymore. "Anything else you want to point out?"

"Why are we having afternoon tea in the morning?"

"Because I like it. That's why."

"Shouldn't it be morning tea?"

" _Morning tea_ doesn't have the same cutesy connotations." I wave over an attendant who hands us a menu. "Look how many teas there are!"

He takes one look. "I don't like tea."

"I love tea," Valerian says, his finger drawing down the items on the menu. "I shall have a rhubarb, if that is possible."

It certainly is. The attendant whisks away to make him some.

"You can have a soda," I say to Ansel. "I would like the blueberry tea!"

"I'll have that too," says Kajika.

Levi scratches his chin. "What would you recommend, Gail?"

"Hmm… how about elderflower? Not too sweet."

He shuts his menu and pushes it into the hands of a waiting attendant. "Then I shall try elderflower."

The boys sit and wait – after a moment I realise they're waiting for me to start. "Go on."

So they dig in. But they're all so polite about it! Valerian naturally eats like he was taught by English aristocrats – with so much poise I could be watching a live magazine shoot. Kajika is less stiff but deliberate, and Levi is careful not to put too much on his place. Forgetting Ansel, who doesn't seem to be hungry at all, no one seems to dive in with as much eagerness as I would've liked.

"You know, if Zelda was here, she'd have cleared half the table by now."

Kajika lets out a chuckle. "No surprises there."

"I think we can all agree to that," Valerian adds. "Lady Zelda never came to a single meeting without a bag of chips of some variety."

"You all got on well, then?" I don't know why I ask when it was obvious by the cohesiveness of their presentation. "You're all friends?"

"I have high respect for all of these gentlemen," says Valerian. "I would consider them my friends, yes."

"Aw, you're so cute, you," Levi ropes an arm around Valerian. "I'm very lucky to call you my friends. All of you!"

Kajika smiles and nods. His version of agreement.

As Levi prattles on about something, I half-listen to his words – it's nice to see them more at ease, Kajika, Valerian and Levi, who are about as similar as my hand is to a piece of broccoli is to an aeroplane hangar. Sometimes it's easy to remember all the rivalries that have boiled forth since the start of the competition, but not the adorable little friendships.

But Ansel barely adds a word in. Ansel has friends. I know he does, in these boys, and in Jeremiah. Why isn't he enjoying himself here?

Levi suddenly laughs. "Remember when we had that spontaneous catwalk in the Men's Parlour a few weeks ago? Kingsley out-showed all of us with swaggering and hip action."

"Kingsley made an _attempt_ to out-show us, that much is true," says Valerian as he sips his tea, but there's a jovial hint of playfulness there.

"Is he still beating you at cards, Valerian?" I tease.

It doesn't get the slightest rise out of him. "I win some, he wins some. You only saw but one game between us."

"You should come for our next game!" Levi encourages. "Sometimes we do dares that if we lose we have to do something stupid around the photographers."

I frown, wracking my memory. "Wasn't there some weird photo a week ago of Parker holding up a pot plant like Simba in the Lion King?"

"He lost a game of blackjack."

"Hah." I turn to Ansel. "Do you play cards too?"

"No," comes his answer.

Oh. Okay.

"We haven't seen you in the Men's Parlour much lately," Kajika remarks. "Are you sure everything is okay?"

"Everything is fine," Ansel reiterates, heavier on the irritation. "I've just been dealing with some things."

"Anything we can help with?" Valerian asks kindly. "We are always happy to provide an ear for you."

"No."

"Aw, I hope everything is fine!" Levi pipes. "When you want to talk, you can chat to—"

Ansel stands. The table shakes.

"I'm not interested in talking. Just… leave it alone. Please."

A note of desperation. I saw that in his eyes, when we went for our walk, when we woke up besides each other. Each time it was like watching him in physical pain with no signs of any wounds. He's hurting inside. And I have no idea why.

Ansel hovers for a moment. He glances between the boys, sighs, and then says, "Your Highness… can we speak? Alone?"

"Of course."

I follow him out of the parlour into the hallway and shoo off the guards.

"I…" He rubs the back of his neck. "I need to ask a favour of you."

"Will it help you?"

"Yes. Immensely."

Suddenly I feel a wash of relief. I'm getting somewhere! Finally, I'm breaking down the walls around Ansel's heart. "Okay!" I take his hands, bouncing on my heels. "Name it."

He takes a deep breath. Looks me squarely in the eye.

"I need you," he murmurs under his breath, "to eliminate me."

* * *

 **A/N:** Hewwo! *glomps* Gail-chan may have escaped punishment from Roy-senpai, but only by the skin of her teeth, and Zelda and Aderyn weren't so lucky... Hope you Big Heart the chapter! :3

So, Gail-chan reeling, Roymilla to return (MOST KAWAII SHIP! XD), Gail and Jeremiah (steamy owo), Kajika and Valerian and Levi having tea, and now Ansel's BIG revelation! :O Looking forward to your theories as to why he wants to go, so let me know what you thought of this one!

Gail: _No, don't tell Green-senpai what you thought! She's a baka and doesn't deserve it!_

Me: _Gail-chan! You're so mean! T.T_

Thanks for reading! *glomps again* ^^

~ uwu

NTT: "Which one of you is crushing on Gail? It's okay. I won't tell her."


	37. A Fish Out of Water

Ansel _wants_ to be eliminated?

This is not what I expect. My mouth goes dry – I'd think he's just kidding if it wasn't him, and if it wasn't for the deadly serious look imprisoned in his tight features. For the weeks and weeks of strange behaviour and furtive looks.

"What?" I'm so speechless my voice comes out a hoarse cry, and I wrestle it to a lower volume. The guards may be staying far away, but the halls have ears and the Selected in the tea parlour could be listening through the door. "Why on earth would you _want_ to be eliminated? Have you cheated on me?"

"No."

"Have you committed some sort of treason and you want to escape the country before the police catch a whiff of your trail?"

"Specific, but no." He swallows. "Will you do it?"

I snatch my hands away. "Absolutely not. Not without a good reason."

His breath comes out ragged. "Please. _Please._ Don't make me go on my hands and knees. It's better for all of us if I'm gone."

"No it's not. You're not giving me any reason for wanting to leave." My shoulders compact against my frame. " _Is_ it a family issue? Do you need time to see them?"

"No, no, no. I-I can't tell you why."

"Why not? Is it me? You don't like me?"

"No, I like you just fine."

" _Just fine?"_

"Yes. I—" He clamps his mouth shut, glances to the side. "I think it's obvious I don't find you attractive, Your Highness."

It shouldn't, because my ego isn't that fragile, but his words hurt. A little. If he thinks this, what if there are more Selected who feel the same?

"Oh."

"Don't get me wrong. You're very cute. Sweet. But… I don't feel anything when I'm with you."

"How do you know when you haven't been trying?" I say, unable to keep the hurt out of my voice. "When we went on that walk— when you fell asleep on my bed! You didn't make any effort to get to know me better!"

"I-I _was_ trying! That was me trying!"

I huff. _That_ was his best?

"Please," Ansel says again, voice cooler. "I'm not trying to hurt you or anyone. I just… I need to go."

I may not see a future with him, but to ask to go and not provide a reason why? It's nosy and there could be terrible things going on in Ansel's life, but selfishly I don't want to let him go. If there is a reason, he should tell me. Him leaving affects me, too.

"I won't consider it until you tell me why," I say, resolute. "So until then, make yourself cosy."

Fear flashes across Ansel's normally stoic features. He glances at the ground before staring me squarely in the face.

"Fine."

Then he turns and walks away, leaving me completely still, shocked, confused beyond anything. He won't go do anything stupid, will he? No, I reassure myself. Ansel's too smart to deliberate disobey the rules – too reticent to start a fight or anything like that. I can trust him of that, at least. Worry gnawing at my skin, I swivel and head back into the parlour. Kajika, Valerian and Levi are enjoying their tea without a care in the world. They must've learnt long ago not to let Ansel's isolation bother them.

It bothers me, though.

Throughout the rest of the tea, I consider finding him, but don't, trying instead to focus on the boys that want to be here. Want to be with me. But as much as I enjoy Kajika's calming presence, Valerian's attention and suave words, and Levi's hyper chatter, Ansel's unceremonious exit has ruined the afternoon for me.

What boy wants to be eliminated for reasons other than me?

 _I_ will _get to the bottom of it_ , I decide. _I_ will.

"Your Highness?"

"Hmm?" The words stir me from my thoughts.

An attendant, leaning slightly over the table.

"I have word from His Majesty. The queen is arriving shortly. He would like you to be present."

"Oh!" Cami is back! I nearly jump up, but remembering my place, I nod and face the boys. "I'm really sorry… can I…?"

"Of course," says Valerian at once, sipping his tea. "We will finish here without you."

"Unless you want us to meet Her Majesty too?" asks Levi.

But I think it's best, for this occasion, for it to be family only, and I tell the boys as much when I leave. They're so kind about it – so forgiving, that I feel less bad about abandoning our date halfway through like Ansel did to meet my sister-in-law on the palace steps.

I head swiftly, my feet pattering on the carpets and floors. One of the maids brings me a coat and scarf that I wrap around myself, and head outside. Guards pepper the courtyard, but there's no one else of rank except Roy. He stands with his back to me, facing the driveway with such intensity like she'll appear at any moment.

He jumps when I come to his side. "Sorry, didn't mean to startle you," I say.

"That's okay. Do I look all right?"

"No more terrible than usual."

"Jokes on you, Cami _likes_ the terrible."

To that I chuckle, and he does too. It's nice. Easy. There's pause, hesitation, in the air, but my guard doesn't feel as rigid as it was before, and if this is the start of a semblance of normal, I welcome it.

We stand there in silence for another few minutes before the 4x4s pile in. Just the sight of them straightens Roy's back, and I take his hand, giving him a reassuring squeeze. _It'll be okay,_ I want to say. He squeezes back. _I know._

The convoy rolls up the steps. Guards pour out first. The door in front of us open.

But the person who steps out is not Cami.

"You look like shit, cousin!"

Sadie attempts to slam the door behind her, but she's so excited that the door barely clicks as she marches towards us.

"Ah," Roy says. "So much for a nice, quiet reunion."

Sadie is about my age – twenty to my eighteen – but she looks so much older. It must be the cool, icy dark hair that falls straight down to her waist, the beige skin, tanned from long exposure from the sun(bed). She owns a condo now in upstate New York where she spends her time lavishing in all the money Cami sends her and enjoying the solo bachelorette life as an elusive, but very popular celebrity (her own words, not mine). She looks the part, too – flared denim jeans and a knotted top, showing off her lithe figure.

"Sadie!" Cami exits the car on the other side, exasperated. "Y-You can't say that!"

"Too late!" Up she strolls the palace steps and embraces Roy in a long hug. "Aw. You're not so bad-looking, really. If you squint."

"Same to you, except with my eyes closed and using a vivid imagination to trick myself into believing it."

She takes a step back, features solemn. "How're you feeling?"

"Better."

Then she whacks his arm really hard. Roy yelps.

"Good, because otherwise I was going to have to come and do an intervention on your ass!" Then she turns to me, and squeals. "Eeee, Gail, my favourite Schreave!"

"Hi Sadie—" She ropes me into a hug, cutting me off. "Oof, you're holding too hard!"

"You _have_ to tell me all about your Selection!" She stands back, giddy. "I am _dying_ to know more about all the hot guys and the drama!"

For a second I register my appreciation that she's here. Maybe it won't be the quiet reunion Roy wanted, but it'll be a memorable one.

Cami glides up the steps then, sighing. Unlike Roy, she's in casual clothes – a giant sweater, jeans and boots, the picture of lazy chique, someone trapped indoors for many days to hide from the hungry press.

"Hey," she says, like she's just come back from a trip to the supermarket. "I'm sorry, Sadie insisted she come along, and I tried to persuade her out of it—"

Roy cuts her off with a hug. Cami, startled, lets her hands waver a moment before she hugs him back, until they're tightly embracing, like the world would never let them part again.

"Ew. Gross," says Sadie.

"At least they're not kissing."

"Don't give them ideas."

"We _can_ hear you, you know." Cami glares at us as she lets Roy go. "Gail, hi."

"Hi Cami."

We embrace, and I'm filled with the scent of her. Wood and cherries and all that is good and kind. When I meet her eyes I can tell she knows I know, and somehow I hope it's a comfort to her that she has one more pair of ears to listen.

Her attention goes to Roy. "Do you… want to talk?"

"Yes," he says, and it's full of heavy emotion.

Hands clenched tightly together, they head inside. Sadie and I watch them go.

"Oooooooh," she says, breaking the silence, "they're so mushy when they're not angry with each other!"

"Did Cami, erm, tell you why she went to you?"

"Pffft, of course. I've known the whole time. Had to buy like five tubs of ice cream to help her cope." She grimaces. "You know all of it, right?"

"Yeah, I know."

"You think they'll be okay?"

I think they'll be okay – maybe times are rough, but they'll pull through because I know Roy and I know Cami, and neither are quitters, especially not for each other. If they come back to each other again and again, after every negative test, then there must be a strong bond between them. I just nod, and Sadie nods too.

"Well, no point moping around. Come on! Let's go have food and you can tell me all about your Selection troubles."

Despite being full of teacakes and tiny pastries, I show no disapproval about heading to the kitchens. Sadie's very much for all the prim and properness of the palace, but when it comes to food she cannot stomach waiting around (pun intentional). She wants to be there when it's cooked, to smell all the glorious scents of herbs and spices and meats and carbs as we sit on the side bar and watch the food glisten and sizzle in chef hands. From the staff she orders a giant plate of lobster cream pasta, and she shovels it in as I tell her some details of the Selection.

"So, your Elite," she says, cutting my thought in two. "What about your Elite?"

"What about them? I have fifteen boys."

"Yeah, but that's Elite range, don't you think?"

I shuffle in my seat. I _have_ thought about it since the trip to Las Vegas, but not much more deeply than the odd pick. "I have some in mind, but it's difficult to choose…"

"Why don't you start with who you don't want in the Elite?"

I whine, "But that's so much harder! I don't want to be so mean…"

She rolls her eyes. "You can't sit on your hands forever. People have been making Elite predictions for weeks, now. You should see the gambling websites. They're going wild."

I frown. "You didn't make a bet, did you?"

"Pffft, no, but people have been hounding _me_ for insight. As if I know!" She grins – there are pasta shells stuck in her teeth. "I mean, I might have insight _now."_

"I haven't even been on dates with all of them."

Sadie drops her fork like I've confessed my desire to shave off all my hair. "Then go on some! What're you waiting for? An invitation?"

Though I know she doesn't mean it the same way, she is right. I've been neglecting my Selected more and more, especially since hockey has eaten all my time. Maybe I need to start being more proactive, and asking to go on more dates.

"I need to get a gown fitted this afternoon anyway. Go on a date then, all right?"

I laugh. "How long are you planning to stay?"

"Just until Cami settles back in. I'll probably head back home tonight, if all goes well." In record time she finishes her pasta. "I'll help you choose the poor soul. Let's go meet and ruthlessly judge these Selected of yours!"

I can't ever say no to Sadie. It's impossible – she has this way about her that entices you into schemes that is both innocent and devilish. She barely bats an eye as the attendant hurriedly announces her entrance, me behind. There are only a handful of the Selected inside – Kajika, Valerian and Levi must still be finishing the afternoon-morning tea, and naturally Ansel is away somewhere, brooding upon his limited options of elimination. Neither present are Soren or Avian. The rest stand up.

"This is Sadie," I introduce, "Cami's cousin."

"But I grew up with her so I'm practically her sister, and she's the queen so really I'm, like, a princess in my own right." She flounces down on the nearest couch, which is pointing towards the latest card game, and leers at the contestants. Parker, Jeremiah, and shockingly Yamato. "Deal in Princess Sadie next round."

Jeremiah raises his brow at me in question. _Ansel?_ But I shake my head. As much as I want to talk about it with him, Ansel is still competition to Jeremiah. It wouldn't be right that he knows his intentions. But the thought nags me, even as I settle next to Sadie. It doesn't make sense. Ansel wants to be eliminated, but he's avoiding everyone – including what must be his closest friend. Why? It tumbles uselessly in my head as the boys draw an extra hand for Sadie next round.

"So," Sadie begins, keeping her face neutral as the bets are placed. "Which one of you is crushing on Gail? It's okay. I won't tell her."

"Sadie, I'm right next to you," I say.

"What's that buzzing? Not me."

Parker beams, taking it in his stride. "Her Highness is really lovely and we all adore her!"

"Agreed," says Jeremiah.

"Tch, all right, cute sentiments, but none of you are experiencing burning lust and passion for this absolute babe right next to me? What is wrong with you?"

 _Burning lust and passion?_ I hope not. I don't think my pathetic Schreave genes could handle it.

The four go silent as cards are dealt. There's probably a million things I should be doing – going on one-on-one dates, for example, but somehow this game has tied me here. I'm stumped that _Yamato_ of all people is playing amongst them. But he seems to be owning it. The last round comes down to him and Sadie, having out-bluffed both Parker and Jeremiah.

"Go on," Parker says, groaning. "Play your cards."

"Full house," Sadie preens.

Yamato smiles.

"Four of a kind."

"Damn!" Sadie yells. "How?"

He shrugs. A very Yamato sentiment.

"Gail," she turns to me, "you should eliminate him for not allowing me to crush him under my boot."

I startle as the boys react with wide eyes. "T-That's not how this works!"

Then she laughs. "I'm teasing. Actually, because you won the round, Yamato Watanabe, you now have the opportunity go on a date with my cousin-in-law."

Parker and Jeremiah widen their eyes. Yamato's face goes white.

"S-Sadie," I whisper desperately, "you can't just… shoehorn a date with me on him. He probably doesn't want to go."

"I-I don't mind."

I look at Yamato. He isn't facing me, lips pursed in some semblance of embarrassment.

Surprised at Yamato's forwardness, I stand. "Oh! All right then! If you want to?"

"Okay."

And that's how I end up on a date with Yamato. Sadie grins, gives me a thumbs up, and proceeds to continue the card game like nothing has changed, as Yamato and I head into the hallway.

"Erm, well, I wasn't really planning for anything." I turn to him, grinning. "What did you want to do?"

"Anything," he says, then smirks, "as long as it isn't ice hockey."

"Hah! I wouldn't torture you so much. Even though you're wrong and ice hockey is great." I spring up with an idea. "I might be able to convince my people to let us go out of the palace?"

"That could be fun. Like… the beach, or the arcade?"

"Oooooo, I'd love to go to an arcade! Let's do it!"

"Will the king definitely allow it?"

Hopefully he's far too busy with Cami to get leery at my date decisions. I order Yamato to change for outdoors weather as I do the same, alerting my new bodyguard, Officer Eld – who is covering Naomi's holiday – along the way.

"I'll have to organise a unit to surround you at all times," she says. "There will be a strict perimeter around you and Sir Watanabe at all times. You will not be let out of our sight."

It's the best deal I'll get. Not exactly romantic, but whatever.

Yamato and I meet back up and pile into the convoy, heading for Los Angeles. We make small talk the whole way – Yamato isn't exactly an open book, but I guess that's why you have to get to know a person first. I bounce along with my usual optimism and hope he'll relax as the day goes on until we arrive in Santa Monica. It's too cold for a dip in the sea, as November trails and December beckons, but Yamato and I stroll along the boardwalk anyway, our contingent of guards surrounding us like the sea wall surrounds the beach. People take photos as we walk passed. Good. I've been too cooped up for so long, and now at least someone will appreciate my make-up.

"You know," Yamato starts, as we stare into the dull sea beyond the horizon, "I'm really surprised you haven't eliminated me by now."

I turn to him. That's surprisingly candid. "Why?"

"I don't think I've made a great impression."

Which I can't exactly disagree with. I knew Elliot from before, from a date on the ice, but the rivalry he later developed with Yamato was my gateway to the other. Ice skating. It's all I really know about him.

"I believe in second chances," I say. "You haven't done anything so horrible except get a little competitive, and you haven't personally offended me so much that I see red."

"Not even in my dislike of ice hockey?"

"Nope." It stings, but people are people. He respects it more now even if he doesn't like it, and there's always room, with a little wile, to change his mind. "I bet there's something I dislike that you love. Name something. Then we can be even."

"Er," he ponders for a moment, "ballet?"

I gasp. "You like ballet? That's so cool! I love ballet!"

"Good start," he laughs. "My best friend is a ballerina, actually. I think that's why I like it."

"Let me guess. Big championships! Star of the stage!"

"I think Dels would be flattered, but no, no championships yet."

"Not like you, huh? Mr World Championship."

He snorts, but it's a humbled noise. Good to know he wouldn't let it go to his head, even with all my prodding. We meander down the boardwalk, arcade in sight.

"Okay." Yamato hums. "Flapjacks."

"Flapjacks? I don't mind those."

"They're my favourite food."

"Do you like blueberries?"

He shrugs. "All right."

"Boo. That's _my_ favourite food."

"I could tell, given that's all you ever eat at breakfast with your pancakes."

"Hey!" I snap. "Blueberries are so healthy! And it could be worse. I could be obsessed with Nutella or maple syrup or ice cream. Ice cream pancakes for breakfast may _sound_ like a good idea, but when I was thirteen I had ten pancakes and three scoops of ice cream at once, and then I was sick on the Nigerian diplomat's coat, and that was embarrassing."

He laughs. "I feel sorry for them."

"Yes, she wasn't very impressed. The next time she came over Roy and Cami put on a popular Nigerian folkdance display."

"As apology?"

"Yep! She was a little less mad after that. But she did lecture me on minding what I ate."

The beachfront arcade is clustered with people – mostly gaggles of teenagers avoiding schoolwork that huddle around the air hockey tables or the penny machines. Our arrival sends some of them in a frenzy of taking out camera phones, but Yamato is class enough to completely ignore them. He must be used to it as I am, coming from a celebrity background. Bright colours steal my attention everywhere I look; it's impossible not to be taken in by all the machines.

"Racing!" I call, dragging Yamato to the race simulator. "Let's play!"

"All right." He starts at the wheel and frowns. "Do you… have any change?"

"Oh." I pat my coat pockets. Nope. But in fairness, it's not like I've ever had to think about carrying money with me. "Officer Eld?"

The perimeter chain breaks as she hands me a little squashed purse with several hundred dollar notes inside – no change. Not exactly what I had in mind but it's better than nothing. I go change it at the counter, and the teller is practically buzzing with excitement and more than happy to change a crisp bill for coins. I slot them into the racing simulator and Yamato and I go ham. Yamato is kind of terrible, crashing into the barriers and doing accidental donuts in the middle of the track, but it's okay. I am equally as bad.

"Eleventh place," he grumbles.

"Hahah! I got second!"

"Second to me," he says, "so… last place."

"Kill my fantasy, why don't you?" I say, sticking out my tongue.

He throws his head back and laughs, and I'm struck at how natural the sound is. He… is genuinely entertained. This is a far shot from the Yamato I met on the rink, cool and not much conversation. Cold. This is a nice Yamato. I could get used to it.

Three games in, and we come to a cutesy shoot-the-duck simulator that you'd normally find at fun fairs. This one is on a screen, so not quite the same effect, but Yamato slots in a few coins and takes the gun. He's surprisingly accurate, landing almost all of his shots. After the game ends, the machine churns out several tickets.

"Oooo! Look what you can win!"

I point him towards the front desk, on top of which hangs several prizes. Including a giant neon pink teddy bear.

He sighs. "You want _that?"_

"What's with the face? It's cute!"

"I bet the man at the desk would give it to you for free. You're the princess."

"That's no fun!" I slot coins into the machine and snatch the gun from him. "I'm going to win myself a teddy bear."

We must spend at least an hour on the game. I think the teenagers who were once in awe of our presence have now grown irritated that we've hogged it most of the daylight hours. But who cares about them? I shoot down ducks like I'm a duck hunter from the gritty Wild West, cowgirl boots and all. With Yamato's help, we eventually get enough tickets, and I spend them all on the teddy bear.

"How do you intend to carry that back to the car?" Yamato asks.

"Using my hands." Even though it's so big I can't see where I'm walking. "Just warn me if there's anyone coming the opposite direction, okay?"

Yamato shakes his head, laughing and running a hand through his hair.

I beat Yamato at a few more games (and by that I mean, he narrowly beats me, because he is one hundred per cent using hacks), before the sun dips below the horizon. It's approaching dinnertime, and I wouldn't want to be late home.

"This was fun!" I chirrup, arms around the bear's giant waist. "I'm glad we did this."

"Me too." He smiles gently.

I take the silence of our conversation to have some introspection. Before this date, I definitely did _not_ see a future with Yamato, thinking he was too stoic for my tastes. But my perspective has changed entirely. I guess with a little time he can flower. Like a Japanese cherry blossom. Am I attracted to him? I don't know, but I'm less sure than I was this morning.

We arrive at the palace steps. I haul up the teddy. "I should probably go put Blossom away and prepare for dinner."

"Blossom?"

"That's what I named the bear. Do you think it's very cute?"

"Yes, very cute," he agrees with an exasperated tone.

"Correct answer."

"Well, er." He takes a deep breath. "Guess I'll see you at dinner?"

"Yep." And because I know he won't ask, I offer him my hand – it is very awkward with the large bear. "You may kiss me if you like."

He stares at the hand, then at me, then back at the hand. I don't think he will, but he takes my fingers in his. Gently, he touches my hand to his lips. It's over in seconds, but it leaves a buzzing warm feeling in my stomach. We part with a large grin on my face and a light fluttering over my back, and I'm nearly sure, when he turned around, he was smiling too.

* * *

The dinner call comes not long after I dress. I'm sliding on the last stocking when there's a noisy knock at my door.

"Who is it?" I call.

Sadie bursts inside. "So! How was the date?"

It's hard to be mad at walking into my room without my consent when she's wearing a giant ball gown, overbearingly bright in a sunset orange and large, puffy sleeves. With her hair curled into a bun, it's too much a sight and I burst out laughing.

"We're going to dinner, not a masquerade ball!"

"Hey, look, _you_ might have the opportunity to wear your infinite collection of ball gowns, but I only come here every other Christmas, so I'm going to take every opportunity to wear something like this when I can get it." She glares at me. "How was the date?"

"Fun!" I pipe as I slide on my last heel. "How was cards?"

"Don't change the subject. Do you like him? Yamato?"

Suddenly feeling very hot beneath my dress, I mumble, "Well, he's very sweet, if that's what you're asking."

"That's not what I'm asking," she says, giving me _eyes._ "Do you want to, you know, _marry_ him?"

I baulk. "It's a little early to ask that."

"I'm trying to help you choose your Elite."

But indecision strikes me again. I do like Yamato, but again I'm not sure whether I can see being _married_ to him. Married to any of the boys. I mean, it's just a Selection, and marriage is not the end outcome for the winner. At least, it isn't what I plan. I'm only eighteen! I just want to date right now.

"I… don't think I want to eliminate him."

Sadie sighs. "Gosh, I put you on date with him to help you eliminate him. Not the other way around." She shrugs. "Whenever you're together on television, he's always so stiff. I figured you could date him, realise there was nothing, and call it a day."

True. "It's not as easy as that. Some people need more time to open up."

"I hate to say it, Gail," she says, frowning, "but you don't have a lot of time left. It's nearly been three months."

And people have been pressuring me to choose for a while now. I sink onto the edge of my bed, sobered.

"Hey." She falls next to me. Well, not quite _next_ to me. At least a yard away, given the size of her dress skirt. "Sorry. I don't want to scare you or anything. Cami and I were talking about your Selection. She just didn't want you to spend too long dithering. The longer you leave it, the more difficult it will be."

She's right but not in the way she's thinking. I want to take my time, it's true. But I don't always have that luxury. The Resurgence is breathing down my neck, and the Elite announcement is the perfect thing to throw them back into the shadows, even temporarily. Shivering at the thought of them, I stand up.

"It's okay. Shall we go to dinner?"

She rises, chin up, and offers her arm. "We shall."

The dining hall seems brighter, but I know it's only because Roy and Cami are back. They whisper to one another, Roy sniggering at something Cami says, before Roy spots me and waves. I practically skip to the table, delight pouring through me to see that Roy and Cami have mended the bond between them.

"How's my least favourite sister?" Roy asks as I take my seat next to him.

"I'm your only sister," I point out.

"Exactly."

Sadie takes the seat to Cami's left. "Roy, as someone with two more brothers, you are definitely my least favourite male sibling."

"Honestly, Sadie!" Cami chides, but there's no real threat to it. Roy huffs and takes it in his stride, as he always does. "Gail, I'm glad you're here. You're my favourite sister."

"Hey!" Sadie says. "What about me?"

"You're my cousin."

"Well then," Sadie continues, "Gail can only be your favourite since she's your only sister."

Cami opens her mouth, then shuts it.

"You tried, babe," says Roy.

"Hush." She swats Roy, glares at Sadie, and then reaches for my hand. I take it eagerly. "I just… want to say, quickly, that I'm really glad you… you know. And that you're on our side, no matter what."

I squeeze her hands. "Of course I'm on your side."

"Well, thank you nonetheless." She smiles at me, then Roy, "and thank you for talking to him."

"Yes, yes, I'm a moron, what else is new?" Roy jokes, though not without an undercurrent of embarrassment.

"Are you… okay?" I haven't had much a chance to talk to her since she arrived home. "You're both okay?"

"I'm okay," Cami confirms, settling the nervous tick in my heart. She gently nudges Roy. "And Roy and I have been through tougher things. We'll be okay."

"Yeah," Roy adds, and he takes one of her hands. "We'll be okay."

"Good!" I cheer. "Good, because you two are my favourite people, and that's not an insult, because I know lots of people, so there."

"I _am_ still here, you know," says Sadie.

"Hah!" Roy ignores her and winks. "I'm your _ultimate_ favourite, right?"

"Sorry, that's reserved for Cami."

Cami chuckles and sticks out her tongue at him good-naturedly.

The Selected file in agonisingly slowly, like the droplets of a leaky faucet. Lots of them acknowledge that Roy and Cami are back and in good spirits: Kingsley bows dramatically to them as he takes his seat, Parker scrambles to fix his already-fine bow tie, and Max stands straighter when he enters the room. I give them all little waves, and an especially eager one to Yamato, who nods his head back. Jeremiah pads inside furtively, but doesn't look at the head table first – his eyes wander. Searching for Ansel.

It's not long before he comes in, but he's notably last. He looks prim and proper, the picture of the Ansel I know so well. But something's off. I can see it, glinting in the dull shine of his eyes. He sits as far from Jeremiah as he can; I glance at Jeremiah to gauge reaction, and I can see the hurt on his face.

Roy stands up and raises a glass. "Well, now that we're all accounted for, I would like to propose a toast."

Everyone stands. Everyone raises their glasses.

"To… new beginnings." He takes Cami's hand. "And to my wife, Cami, for being my rock."

Cheers to that. I say, "Yay!" as the boys applaud it. We all drink and sit down and food is served. A side dish of a simple Caesar salad, with main course of grilled salmon, garlic potatoes, mushrooms, arugula and asparagus.

"Damn asparagus…" Roy says, not bothering to hide his disdain as he gathers pieces on his plate. "If it were up to me I'd fling it out the window."

A peculiar noise draws my attention to the Selected's table. Ansel has stood up, his chair pushed behind him, expression hard. The chatter dies down as others divert their eyes to him.

"What's he doing?" whispers Cami.

I shrug, but alarm bells are ringing in my head. _Weird, weird, weird._

Then, without so much as a warning, Ansel plunges his hand into his plate, picks up his entire slice of grilled salmon, and hurls it at Kingsley. The oily _slap_ as it lands on Kingsley's head is loud enough to disguise my gasp.

Kingsley bolts up. "You fiend—!"

He throws potatoes back at Ansel, but it misses, hitting his neighbour, Avian. Avian rockets to stand and tosses asparagus back, hitting the window, and suddenly chaos ensues. Salmon and potatoes and salad and asparagus is flying everywhere, every direction.

"FOOD FIGHT!" yells Parker.

A stalk narrowly misses my head as I yelp and duck. Roy pulls Cami down as Sadie gets hit by a rogue tomato.

" _What the hell is going on?"_ Roy hisses to me.

I'm too shocked to say anything. Ansel, that minx, started a god-forsaken _food fight_ in front of everyone, but most importantly my brother. He _wanted_ this. This is his way out.

"Are you okay?" Roy asks Cami.

But Cami is just laughing as Sadie, who has garlic sauce sliding down the front of her dress. Sadie goes red in the face.

"Don't laugh! This took _ages!"_

"Never a dull moment," she says, wiping a tear from her eye.

Roy is less amused. "The one day where I want a nice, quiet evening…" he grumbles, stands up and slams his palms to the table. I can feel the boom of his voice before it comes. " _If you don't stop this instant, I will throw all of you out!"_

The fighting stops. Hands that were drawn back to fling croutons of mass destruction retract hastily to sides. Food is everywhere, lodged in Yamato's hair and sliding down Silas' tie, staining the curtains and the carpet. On shaky legs I stand, eyes desperate to find the culprit. Ansel is covered head to toe in slop, sauce, oil and salad leaves. There's a sticky substance in his hair. Yet he barely bats an eye as Roy's attention hones on him.

" _You!"_ He yells, pointing a finger. "You think you can come into my home and act as disgraceful as that? I am _disgusted!_ You are not ten years old!"

Shame burns on Ansel's cheeks, but no other indication that he's chastened. I head down towards him.

"Out," I command. " _Now."_

"Elimination is not a harsh enough punishment for your shameful behaviour!" Roy calls just as the doors slam behind us.

The hallway is deathly silent. Ansel dips his head as we move closer to the exit for privacy. Roy will be gunning to eliminate him now. Exactly what Ansel wants. After that display, I'm half inclined to agree to it.

"What is _wrong_ with you?" I yell. "You can't just _start food fights!_ Are you out of your mind?"

Ansel plucks a rocket leaf from his hair. "I behaved poorly, and for that I apologise."

But there's a question hanging in the air.

I stomp my foot. "I know exactly why you pulled that stunt. I'm not an idiot. And the answer is still _no."_

To that he goes pale. Utterly pale.

"There's no possible way you can let me stay," he says, though his voice wavers. "The king witnessed it. I threw salad at the queen's sister—"

" _I_ and I _alone_ choose who stays and who goes. That's always been the rules of the Selection. Neither Roy nor Cami have a single whiff of a say." I can't help my fists clenching. "It's honestly ridiculous, Ansel, that you felt the need to do _that_ to get their attention!"

"I wouldn't have had to do that if you just let me go!"

"And I told you, I won't _let_ you until you tell me why!"

Distress peaks along the contours of his face. "Your Highness, _please._ You don't understand."

"No, I don't! That's exactly the problem!"

He runs a hand through his hair, ruining the parting. Further ruining the look of composure he so effortlessly held when he walked into the dining room, with full knowledge about what he was going to do.

"I— I can't—" He buries his head in his hands. "I can't tell you why!"

"If not a family problem, then what is it?"

"I _can't_ tell you!"

"Yes you can!"

He shakes. "I-I just can't. Y-You will hate me for it!"

Fear pricks through my frustration. " _Why?"_

"Because I—"

Ansel shuts his eyes as a little sob escapes his lips, and words breathe so faintly from his quivering lips that they could be a whisper on the wind.

"B-Because I'm in love with Jeremiah."

* * *

 **A/N:** Hello everyone! Ah, so there we have it, Ansel's source of distress revealed. Hope you enjoyed this chapter.

Let me know what you thought about Ansel, Sadie, Roymilla, the unexpected date with Yamato, and the madness at the end. I _loved_ writing the food fight, hahahahah. Next chapter might be in two weeks, as I've really caught up to where I am chapter-wise lol. Idk. We'll see.

Thanks for reading!

~ GWA

NTT: "I don't care his reasons. I want him gone."


	38. Behind Closed Doors

" _Noooooooooooooooooo way!"_

I mean, that's the proper reaction to have when someone tells you they're in love with someone else, right?

Ansel goes rigid stiff. He looks ridiculous covered in food from the food fight he instigated, but the blush is there, rising up his cheeks.

"T-That's not how you're supposed to react."

"B-But you're in love with Jeremiah!" I whisper, withholding a squeal. "That's so cute!"

"No it isn't!" he insists. "It's uncomfortable and inconvenient, and I need you to eliminate me so I can get as far away from him as possible!"

Okay, maybe I overreacted, but so is Ansel – in an entirely different way. I shake my head and hold up my hands in truce. "Why don't you want to be in love with him?"

"You don't get it, Your Highness." He turns, sighs. "I… I'm not supposed to be in love with guys."

"Oh." That's a much heavier conversation topic than I expected. "Is he your first guy crush?"

"No."

"Okay. But you're still uncomfortable with it?"

He shuts his eyes, and for a moment I don't think he'll respond. "A few years ago I met a guy at church, called Seven. We dated in secret for a few months until my dad found out and forced us apart." His shoulders hunch. "He and my mom… they're not outright homophobic, but they definitely did not like that I was with a guy."

"Oh, Ansel, that's horrible."

"Which is why," he draws up, utilising our height difference to gain some authority, "I need you to eliminate me."

"But… that's not going to solve anything."

"It is," he says, but even I can tell he's trying to fool himself. "If I can get away from Jeremiah, then I won't think of him anymore."

"But you'll miss him."

"I won't."

"Ansel." I take his hands, as grimy as they are. "Your circumstances are horrible, but do you really think just shoving that part of you down inside yourself is going to help? Do you really think cutting him out will make all this go away?"

He doesn't reply. He and I already know the answer, anyway.

I squeeze his hands and bounce on my heels. "I have an idea, actually."

"No."

"You haven't even heard it yet."

"It's going to be bad."

I huff. He cracks a smile, which is a good sign he's at least willing to listen.

"Why don't you stay for as long as you like?" I say. "You can stay and enjoy it here, and if I do have to eliminate you, I can put you in one of our guest houses and make up the excuse that you're doing things for me. At least so you can have space from your family, if you want it."

He takes his hand away. "That's… very generous, Your Highness." His face goes through a myriad of emotions. "Though I don't… I don't plan on ever telling Jeremiah. I don't want to ruin my friendship with him. He's important to me."

"He really cares about you, too!" I pipe. "He came to find me this morning to ask about you. He was so worried he interrupted me in the bath!"

Ansel raises an eyebrow.

"It's not like that," I say, "promise."

He runs a hand through his hair. "So… you're not mad?"

"Of course not! I mean, it's pretty obvious I don't feel anything for you like that."

He nods once. I think he gathered that a long time ago. "Mr Rudy said I should tell you. I've done that now, to clear my conscience."

So _that's_ what Rudy was doing outside Ansel's bedroom. The puzzle piece clicks into place. "Mr Rudy is very wise and always right, of course." I grin, feeling a little more self-indulgent than I should. "But why don't you want to tell Jeremiah how you feel? He might feel the same way. You'd be so cute together!"

"Definitely not," he mutters. "Confessing to Jeremiah… he might not even consider me in that regard."

"You're always together." Granted, it's not like friends don't do that, and I have no idea if Jeremiah likes Ansel _like that,_ but I do remember he wore the bisexual cufflinks at the pride parade, so it's not like the door isn't there for Ansel to knock. "It might work better than you think."

"I don't think so. I don't know. If I'm not here I might be able to forget about him."

"Everyone knows you can't just _forget_ a person you're crushing on."

"You'd know that?" he asks.

My cheeks go up in flames as the first image in my head is Sheng's brooding face. Oh. I suppose I would. But Ansel doesn't need to know that.

"N-Not personally, no, hahah, but it's common wisdom—"

The dining hall doors open with a rumble down the end of the hallway. The boys file out in a single, miserable line, each covered in food filth. I detect the unease crawling through them, especially when they see Ansel and me, watching us with furrowed brows. Roy must've sent them back to their rooms to see out the rest of the evening in solitude.

Ansel swallows loudly. "I'm in big trouble, aren't I?"

Best not answer that. I ignore the boys and face him. "Do you actually want to go home? Really?"

"I need to get away from him," he whispers.

"But apart from that. Do you like it here?"

He gulps. "I… I do like it here. A lot. It's… freeing."

"Then stay." I take his hands again. "Stay, please. I'll send you home if you really want, but if it makes you happy to stay then it makes me happy to keep you."

For a second, I think he'll ask to send him away. His jaw works, but there's a spark in his eyes. A spark of hope.

"All right," he murmurs. "I'll stay."

"Yay!" I bounce and clap.

"And… and Jeremiah?" he says. "Will you keep him, too?"

As sweet as Jeremiah is, he hasn't exactly stuck out to me yet as a potential suitor. I felt no flutters in my stomach when he came to see me this morning in the bath – besides the general nerves of being exposed to a stranger. Will I ever develop feelings for him? Especially now, knowing how Ansel feels? It seems almost cruel to lead Jeremiah on, but I don't have a decent reason to eliminate him yet, and I know keeping him here will make Ansel happy.

"I will," I say.

He nods. "All right."

"Is that okay?"

"That's okay."

I gulp. "Will you talk to him? He's hurt that you're ignoring him."

Ansel's eyes shutter. "My opinion hasn't changed just because I want to stay. I… don't want to feel these feelings for him anymore."

"I know, and I also know you'll figure it out, because you're pretty smart, but I think you'll regret it more if you completely cut him out of your life."

He knows that's right. He shoves his hands into his pocket. "Not that it matters. I think I have to go now. The king will never allow me to stay."

"Don't you worry about him." I spin around. "I'll sort it."

"Your Highness." He calls, and I turn mid-stride to the bow of his head. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet. Go rest. I'll send you a message, all right?"

The dining hall is a mess with the marks of the food fight. Soggy arugula leaves slide off dining chairs. Shreds of salmon are squashed onto the floor, and asparagus clings to the walls, trickling oil like rain. Gosh, the smell too! It'd be almost kind of nice, the spicy, herby aroma that fills my nose, if it weren't already mixing uncomfortably with the scent of fresh linens and buffed wood. At the head table, Roy and Rudy – not sure from where the valet materialised – are in intense discussion, with Roy flinging his arms out and pointing erratically at the damage. Cami and Sadie are seated on the floor behind them, free from the carnage, as Cami carefully pulls strings of wet carrot from Sadie's hair.

Roy sees me and perks up at once. "Is he gone?"

"No."

"What?" Roy says, brows diving into his eyes. "Why—"

"I can explain." Sort of. I obviously won't tell him Ansel is in love with Jeremiah. Roy shouldn't be privy to that. "He did it because he wanted to be eliminated."

"Well, grant his wish then!" Roy says. "Gail, you cannot seriously consider keeping him after _that_ display."

"It's my Selection. I say who stays and who goes."

"And this is _my_ house. No one instigates a goddamn _food fight_ in my house and gets away with it." He rubs his temples. "There is no way on earth that you're actually considering him as a potential keeper, are you?"

I resist the urge to wince. "I'm in the process of making a decision."

Rudy sighs. At least with him here, I'll have someone on my side. "I can assure you, Roy, this is very unlike Ansel. I suspect he has personal reasons for conducting himself like this. I will have a stern talking to with him."

"I don't care his reasons. I want him gone," Roy says, lasering his glare on me. "I respect that this is your Selection, but if he isn't gone by the Elite stage, then damned to the rules, Gail, I'll eliminate him myself. Until then, he is to eat dinner in his room for the rest of his time here. Rudy, see to it the other Selected return promptly to clean up this mess."

He turns, cutting off any potential retort, to fawn over Cami and make sure she's okay. I can tell by the fact that she can't stop giggling under her breath that the whole thing was hilarious, especially now that Sadie's dress is ruined.

Rudy lets out a long, piercing sigh that reeks with disappointment. "The gentlemen will return soon to help clean up. Where is Ansel?"

"I sent him back to his room to wash."

"I need to speak with him. Excuse me, Your Highness."

I follow him out of the room. "Mr Rudy, I know the reason why he wants to be eliminated."

That stops him and swivels around to face me. "And?"

"And what?"

"What are you going to do about it?"

I twiddle my thumbs. "I asked him to stay and he agreed. And I said I'd offer him housing if I had to eliminate him"

Rudy ponders this a moment, and then nods. "I knew you'd be okay with it. I had trouble convincing him of the same thing." His eyes narrow. "Still, I would like to remind you that this isn't the opportunity to meddle in his affairs, all right? Don't do anything ridiculous like try to set him and Jeremiah up."

The flutter of an idea hides in my head. "I-I would never do that."

One of his eyebrows arches. Oh heck, they might not be related by blood, but the gesture is so _Zelda,_ seeing right through my lies.

"All right," I concede. "No meddling."

"Good. Excuse me."

Off he goes to comfort – and chide – Ansel. I frown. I couldn't keep Ansel forever, I knew that, but until the Elite? As I have been reminded too many times lately, that's only five boys away, which is not a lot of boys. Ansel won't have long to sort himself out. Or confess. Whichever comes first.

Pity twangs my heartstrings for him and his home life. I've never had to worry about acceptance here – Roy and Omma and just about everyone else don't see sexuality as an issue – but some people still must do. No wonder the door to Ansel's heart is shut so tightly. No wonder he'd rather run from the truth than face it.

 _No meddling._ That's what Rudy asked of me. And I promised I wouldn't meddle. But what if Jeremiah feels the same? What if they're a match made in heaven, and they're both too oblivious to see it? If my Selection can bring me and someone else together, I don't see why it can't do it for Ansel and Jeremiah.

If Ansel doesn't want to confess, fine, but maybe I could find out whether Jeremiah likes him? And if they do like each other, what's to stop them from being together?

Plans dance and whirl and take shape in my head as I make my way back to my quarters, stomach growling. I didn't exactly get to eat very much before Ansel threw his plate about, and now it's affecting my mental energy to matchmake.

"Your Highness."

Naomi's voice stops me cold as I look up, almost running into her. She stands outside my door, a cool but almost invisible presence. Just as I become used to Officer Eld standing guard…

Guilt rams itself down my throat. By the heavy stare she gives me, she hasn't forgotten what happened the last time I saw her.

"Oh, hello, Naomi…" I mumble. "I-I thought you were on holiday?"

"I was suspended, actually," she says coldly. "For failing to do my job."

 _Suspended?_ Oh gosh. The strike against her record is my fault, and she knows that I know it.

"I-I'm sorry about that," I mumble, and it's as pathetic as I feel. "I'm just going to… go into my room now…"

She moves to step in front of the door.

"Sorry for what?"

Fear swallows me right up like a voracious monster. I take a step back, refusing to look her in the eye. "For going to Las Vegas without telling you. Yes, erm… it was kind of spur of the moment."

"Really now?" she mutters. "Like the fifty other times you've snuck out by climbing down the palace walls?"

My entire body goes frozen. _She knows._ How? How does she know? I try to play off the sensation of being nailed red-handed. "I- I don't know what you're talking about."

She sighs. "Your Highness, I don't fault you for wanting to go out and see the world or for wanting a semblance of freedom. But could you do it not at the expense of my job?"

It's such a loaded question that my cheeks burn. "I-I am really sorry."

"So you should be. I've been guarding you for years and my record is spotless, and now it's not."

"How… how did you know that I was sneaking out?"

"You're not exactly subtle about it. Television playing for hours on end with no other noise. You know one time I knocked to see if you were okay? No answer."

I didn't think she cared. I thought she just did her job and left it at that. My shoulders contract as guilt wreaks havoc on my entire mood.

"And seeing that boyfriend of yours. The stable boy."

That forces my chin up to look at her. No jest on her face. Nonchalant, but serious nonetheless. She meets my wide-eyed gaze with a smirk. "What? You think I didn't know about him, too? Ouch. I'm not _that_ bad at my job."

"B-But—" Sheng and I were so _careful._ Especially of Naomi. "But if you knew about him, and you knew about me sneaking out every other night, why didn't you tell me?"

"I was waiting for you to admit it to me first."

"Then why not tell anyone else? Captain Durante, or Roy?"

To that she leans against the wall. "Because I get it. It wasn't long ago that I was your age."

I tilt my head. "Aren't you, like, forty?"

"Thirty-five, thank you." She scowls. "Not the point. I was a little younger than you when I moved here from Australia, by myself, with no local contacts, when I started training to become part of the National Guard. I knew nobody and I didn't vibe with the local culture, but you know what? That was the best decision I ever made. This age – your age – is the best time to do stuff like that. To see the world and make mistakes and start careers in other countries and get secret boyfriends and gallivant off to Las Vegas."

"Make mistakes," I repeat. "What if I make a bad decision that hurts me or someone else?"

She ponders it a while. "I did think about that, but I decided you more importantly need to _have room_ to make mistakes. And though you may be, all respect to you when I say this, _sheltered_ a lot, you're also clever enough not to make extremely moronic decisions."

Too humbled to speak, I wonder what she'd say if she knew about the brownie.

"When you think about it," Naomi continues, "you came back from Las Vegas just fine, didn't you? When you contacted us, you weren't in any danger."

"That's right."

"Like I knew you wouldn't be. You'll be thankful of all the things you did in the future, no matter the repercussions. You're making better memories out there than in here."

I can't believe my _bodyguard_ of all people is telling me this. I look back to the hallway, where I know the windows are, overlooking the palace and beyond. Naomi is not the first person to call me sheltered – Aderyn all but said the word the other day before we went to Las Vegas. I guess I'm glad that someone understands what it's like to live under this roof with such heavy expectations. If I'm going to learn about real life, I need to be out there, experiencing it.

"I… thank you," I say eventually. "That's really nice of you."

"Yeah, well," she scoffs, "this time it cost me my reputation and nearly my job, but I guess if you had fun, it was worth it."

I want to grin and say _totally worth it!_ But of course, when I ended up crying my eyes out in the bathroom of an expensive mansion at a social dinner, I can't really say that at all. Instead I nod.

"What are you going to do now?"

She regards me as she rolls her lips. "Are you still planning to sneak out?"

"M-Maybe…"

"Then could you give me a heads up or something? Let me know where you're going? Keep on your location services for me?"

That's the most reasonable request of the whole week. "I can do that."

"Good. Then I'll say no more."

She steps aside and lets me pass. I close the door behind me, my whole being rejuvenated.

It says something when my bodyguard, someone who is paid to guard me, is less restrictive than my own brother. She's not quite on my side I don't think, but it's better than barring me in my own home, and a wash of gratefulness overcomes me. I've been majorly overlooking her as a potential ally in this madness. Maybe it would be safer to tell her about the hockey team, too…

I'm not sure where her boundaries are though. Okay, she might be fine with me going to Glendale Ice Rink for a few hours each week, but what if the next match is hours up the road? A day trip? Overnight? I wring my hands, unsure how far I'm willing to push her.

A little _tap tap tap_ interrupts my thoughts, and I whirl to look at the door to my balcony. A fat pigeon dances back and forth on one twig leg and one thick one, and pecks at the door. In the night, its dark shadow stretches like a swathe of navy paint upon the canvas of my balcony. _Tap tap tap._

"Aw, cute little thing," I murmur, going to the door and sliding it open. "Do you want some food? I think I have some snacks somewhere…"

The pigeon doesn't fly away. It doesn't even step back at my looming presence. Instead it raises a leg, and at once I see I was mistaken. What I thought was one fat leg is actually a twiggy one, with something stuck on the side. A sheathe.

A message.

My smile drops. I know instantly what this is, _who_ this is. Shaking, I reach down, unclip the sheath and slide out the tiny scrap of paper. It's not distinguishable from any other piece of paper, or a torn page from my hundreds of notebooks, though I'm not sure why I expected it to be, and I unfurl the little note to read the cursive by cold, cruel moonlight.

 _Your month deadline has expired, Princess_. _Time is running out._

 _I hope you haven't forgotten us._

 _Your ally,_

 _The Voice._

* * *

 **A/N:** Hi everyone! Oop, it looks Gail's other responsibilities are catching up to her... Hope you enjoyed the chapter!

So Ansel is staying... for now... Let me know what you think about him and Jeremiah! Also Naomi knowing all of Gail's secrets?! And the Voice popping in at the end...

Just in case you didn't know, I've started a TSaTSverse mini-series called **The Merry King**! It follows Prince Merrick (Roy, Gail and Tay's father) during the harrowing final month of his Selection and his difficult rise to power... If you've read tsats or you want to know more about Gail's pops, you can read the first chapter under my stories. :D

Thanks for reading!

~ GWA

NTT: "Hell, make out with one of your Selected on camera for all I care."


	39. Distractions

The cheers and screams that raze the rink's roof do nothing to curb the nerves fluttering in my stomach.

Hmm. _Fluttering._ More like _churning._ Churning like a blender mixing a thousand knives.

I've never completely forgotten the Rebel Resurgence, or the Voice. Heck, they linger in my head like a ghost with unfinished business. But I shoved them right to the back of my head as their activity fell to a light hum across the country and other matters stole my attention. Hockey. The Selection. Roy and family.

Now I've let the month skip by. December in full force brings relentless cold air that chills my skin. It brings the stormiest of days and darkest of nights. It brings festivity and togetherness and a heavy pall on my shoulder that a new year is upon me and I haven't done anything about the rebel threat.

A whistle blows, forcing my head up. I should pay attention. With our first home game against the Monterey Mallards, I could be called up to play at any moment, but as Madison zips across the rink as graceful as a swan, her hockey stick batting the ice, doubts rise higher in my stomach.

"Destroy them, Felice!" Janet yells. The other substitutes holler. "Crush the Mallards!"

It's a close match; we're at even scores with only four minutes left. Anything could change. But I can't help but think of home, of the pigeon that promptly delivered the message and jumped back into flight as quickly as it had appeared.

 _Time is running out._

What does it mean? Are they going to strike? I've watched the rebel activity this last day, but nothing more than the strangely quiet period we've all accustomed to this November. Worry gnaws at me. This is the worst timing. Ever.

Another whistle goes. I don't bother looking up, fiddling with my hands.

The wall directly in front of me judders. " _Vivas!"_

I jerk up. Bellona stands on the ice, jamming a thumb backwards. "I'm swapping out Opeyemi. You're up."

 _I… am?_

I stare at her a moment longer than I should, dumbfounded. She's still the same Bellona – still hard on us in training and composed under pressure – but still, I can't help but feel weak, powerless, under her intense gaze. She does hate me, after all. There's no way I'll be able to reconcile with that.

"Why?" I ask.

Bellona's expression darkens. "She's not fast enough. We need speed to win."

Janet claps me on the shoulder. "Hell yeah, girl. Go get 'em!"

Nerves pillage through me as I slide on my helmet. No more rebel thoughts. I need to put them out of my head for this. "R-Right."

 _Time is running out._

I glance at the timer. Three minutes, twenty-five seconds. Okay. I grab hold of my hockey stick and skate onto the ice, bumping fists with Madison on her way back.

 _You've got this, Gail._

The whistle goes, and I shoot off. Mallards in possession of the puck – it skids between its players. Using my speed, my agility, I skirt between them and steal the puck with the corner of my toe. The modest home crowd cheers as I tear it to Beverly to avoid crashing into another Mallard.

Everything seems to happen at once. Beverly passes it to Felice who passes it to the other offence, Jocelyn, who thunders through into enemy territory. Three Mallards approach her from all sides.

She won't make it to the goal.

Our eyes connect. One swift hit, and the puck is with me again.

I skate as fast as I can go. Swivel around a Mallard, pivot to avoid the wall, shoot—

The puck lands in the goal. I squeal as the crowd erupts. Not bad for my return.

With the score once more in our favour, we spend the last two minutes juggling the puck between us to prevent another opponent goal, and time is called. The Angeles All-Stars win again.

Still, I can't find it in me to be totally exhilarated like I was last time, even as Rose crushes me in a bear hug.

"We did it! We did it!"

"Yeah!" I cheer and hug back, but it's lacklustre.

"We're in the quarterfinals! I can't believe it!"

This grabs my attention. The quarterfinals, already? Some part of me forgot this was a tournament with elimination brackets. I've only viewed these games as one match after the other, not Round One, Two or Three. The quarterfinals means there's only three more matches left until there is a champion.

My eyes bug out of my head. Champions… _us?_ I can't imagine it.

Everyone is in such high spirits in the locker room that I can hardly think of the rebels one way or the other. Memories of the Voice's timbre shiver down my spine, but I shoo the thoughts away. She and the rebels can take my time later, but this victory… this is mine, and I deserve to bask in it.

After the showers we congregate in the locker room. Janet laces oil into her dark hair. "Bite my ass and call my momma, the quarterfinals. Never thought I'd see the day."

"You should have more faith!" Rose adjusts the silk wrap around her hair. "Of course we're good enough. We've been training really hard and we have a great teacher."

"Yeah, but now that we're in the quarters it means we have to face the fact we might go up against…" Janet shudders. "The Sacramento Scorpions."

Desperate not to itch my scalp beneath the wig I busy my hands on my lap. "Are… are they bad?" I ask quietly.

"Are they _bad?_ They're only the biggest juggernauts in the competition, Su," Janet says.

By her side, Beverly winces. "I've heard their second team is so good they make the _first_ team look like kid's little league. They're on track for league promotion. They haven't lost a single game."

"Yeah?" Felice calls, and the rest of the room silences. "Neither have we."

"We're new blood," says Madison. "They've been established for years."

"So? That's to our advantage." She swings around, stares each of us in the eye. "Like when we fought the Franciscan Ferrets. Cocky arrogant team didn't know squat about us, and it cost them the game. How long they've been around doesn't matter, because there ain't nothing the Scorpions can do better that we can't."

"The Scorpions are smart."

At the doorway, Bellona beholds us all. There's a twinkle of pride there from the win, but it immediately drowns for heavy scrutiny.

She continues. "Indeed, what the Scorpions have that the Ferrets don't is level heads. They won't underestimate us. Neither should we underestimate them." She steps inside. "Congratulations on the game today. I'm proud and impressed with all of you."

 _Even me?_ The thought crosses my head in a wallop. _Even me, fake attitude Princess Gail?_

"Let's cross the bridge of the Sacramento Scorpions when we come to it. For now, the tournament is on break until after the New Year. We will continue training, of course, and I'll send you our schedule by tomorrow at the latest. For now, take pride in your win today. You've all earnt it." Then she faces me. "A word, Vivas."

Rose gives me a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder when I leave to join Bellona in one of the side rooms. She sits. I stand.

"You played well today," she remarks, like talking about the weather and not ignoring that the whole fate of my secret career rests on her shoulders. "Well done."

"Thank you, ma'am," I say, head bowed, "but it was only about five minutes."

"Don't discount a small amount of minutes as nothing. I wanted to see how well you would fare under the time pressure. I left a lot riding on you, when I made that change." She pauses. "I made the right choice."

I nod, because I don't know what else to do.

"Susanetta, please look at me."

I do, even though it's torture. I used to love every aspect of her, but now the image of her coiffed dark brown hair and intense expression brings bile up my throat.

"I'm proud of you. You should be proud of yourself, too."

"I-I am."

"You don't sound it."

 _Too much going on,_ I think, and take a deep breath, managing a weak smile. "I want to be better."

She mulls on my words. "I admire that in you. Your tenacity to be better." She sits up. "I'm restoring your position on the active team."

I blink, stupefied. "R-Really?"

"Yes. I think you've proven yourself. You're more than on time now and save the odd occasion, you've been working very hard on improving. Madison is happy to remain a substitute for now."

"That's…" _Am I happy? Am I bitter? I can't decide._ I settle on happy for now, because at least now I'll get to play. "That's wonderful. Thank you so much. You won't regret it."

"Don't make me," she says with a tone of warning. "The quarterfinals are upon us. I expect you to play your absolute best."

"I will."

"Thank your sister as well," Bellona notes as she stands. "She gave me the idea to put you on the ice for the last few minutes."

Outside in the car park, Zelda claps me so hard on the back I nearly choke. She's still grounded, terribly, but exhibits not a care in the world as she chugs the car into motion and slips us onto the busy evening roads.

"The freakin' quarterfinals." Her laugh buries the music. "Holy shit. Can you believe it?"

"Nope."

"And you— you scored the last goal! It was so epic!"

"Thank you, by the way." I grin at her. "I heard you put me on the rink."

"I _may_ have convinced Bellona that Madison was too slow to score." She shoves me with an arm and laughs as I swat her. "You're welcome. I just— I never thought we'd get this far. It's wild to think a few months ago we were just thinking of crashing the rink for autographs."

It is strange to think. Once upon a time I desperately wanted Bellona's poster to hang from my wall. I've since ripped it off – tearing down anything with her face – but the old sentiment ignites inside me. We've come such a long way from being rosy-cheeked fans.

"Are you glad we did?" she asks quietly. "I know… I know it's different now."

"It is," I admit. "I can't change what Bellona said, but the team… the team are wonderful. I love Rose, and Beverly and Janet are great too. Even…" I grimace. "Even Felice has her good points."

"I wouldn't go that far," Zelda scoffs. "But I agree. I'm glad we did it."

The sentiment hangs in the air. _I'm glad we did it… now how long can it last?_ I haven't stopped thinking about it since I was banned from the team, and it clambers through my head like a battering ram through a slice of cheese. I may be holding the strings together, but as Aderyn once said, it's only a matter of time before someone else discovers my secret. I had to tell Naomi I was going out to the ice rink – how long before she realises it's because I'm on a hockey team?

The next morning, my slumber is cut off when Aderyn noisily bustles into the room and throws open the curtains. It's barely sunrise, but the clouds are thick and heavy in the sky.

"Apologies, Your Highness," she says, as I groan and rub my eyes. "You've been requested to attend a meeting with the king."

"What time is it?"

"Six thirty. It seems rather urgent."

Adrenaline bleeds through my sleep. The rebels. It has to be.

I wash and dress as fast as lightning and head over to Roy's office. I'm not sure what made me think it was a group meeting, like the ones Omma and Appa used to hold when they were in charge of government, but the meeting appears to be me, Roy, Cami, Lilly and Durante. Everyone except Durante is lazily dressed. Pyjamas and dressing gowns and silk trousers. Cami is only in a plain gown – by the dark circles under her eyes it doesn't look like she got much sleep. Roy doesn't look much better.

"I didn't mean to wake you so early," he says as I shut the door behind me. "I just thought we should discuss last night's happenings to formulate a plan as soon as possible."

"What happened?"

"There was a raid," Cami says, "of a huge supermarket complex down in Clermont."

"No casualties," Roy adds, somewhat easing the horror of the situation, "but a massive undertaking. Hundreds of thousands of dollars' worth of food and supplies lost."

My heart jumps into my throat. _I did this._ In my inaction, I caused this all.

"Scattered on the floor were multiple cards that just said, _we're waiting."_ Roy looks pointedly at me. "Did they mention anything like this when you last met them?"

Our last meet up at the abandoned swimming pool in Fennley ended in the Voice's earnest request for me to hand a list of demands to the prime minister, and then join the rebels. I declined. At least, the latter I did. Promising to try on the former must have led to this whole escapade. _We're waiting,_ those cards said; what else could they be waiting for but me to make a move?

Even though it was over a month ago now, the details are fresh in mind, and though I may not have told Roy and co. about the list of rebel demands, the rebels definitely did not tell me they were planning any raids. I force myself to take a seat, my knees threatening to give way.

"No, otherwise I would've warned you," I say fiercely. "I would've said something, I promise—"

"Hey, it's all right." Cami takes my hand and squeezes. "There's definitely worse things that could've happened."

"The story hasn't broken to media yet," said Roy, "but it's only a matter of time. By late morning, it'll be all over the news. We need to up the ante, and we need to do it now." He turns to Lilly and signs as he says, "I thought they were attempting a more peaceful approach than their predecessors?"

Lilly frowns. " _They are. My sources report supplies finding their way to poor families in Clermont. It is redistribution."_

Roy slams his palms against his desk. " _Damn it!_ They cannot just pick and choose who they like!" His fingers scrape wood as they form a fist. "They are not above the law, and they have already broken several."

Cami translates this to Lilly – Lilly merely frowns, but nods meekly.

"We'll have to work with Ahmed to find these hooligans." He rises. "And after such a quiet period, too…"

It was too good to be true, to keep that up.

"Were there… injuries?" I ask.

"Yes," Roy says. "A few hundred, at least. Nothing major, but… there were people who were hurt."

I bow my head. _It's all my fault._

"We tried to let them be, but this violence crosses the line. Lilly, if you can plead to your contacts in the Resurgence – I know you had little success before, but it might be helpful to have something. I'll get in contact with Ahmed. Cami, if you could contact the armed forces. Durante, enforce stricter grounds patrol."

"What about me?" I ask quietly.

"You keep being yourself, for the cameras," he says. "We'll need something really good to detract from the warehouse robbery story when it releases. Think you can come up with something? Hell, make out with one of your Selected on camera for all I care." At my nod, he smiles. "Thank you."

I wander back to my room a silent mess. It's important for those families to have those supplies, yes, but at the cost of injuries? Unnecessary injuries? What happened to the peaceful ethic the Voice was so insistent on when I challenged her? Maybe they're finding it in themselves to take more drastic steps to make a difference. It'll be just like a decade ago, when I was made to do safety drills to practice hiding in the safe rooms when the rebels would attack.

I gulp. They wouldn't go that far… would they?

I shut the door tightly to my room and search in my locked drawers. Out comes the wodge of cool, untouched paper. _Proposed Changes to Illéan Infrastructure._ I still have to get this to Ahmed. I still have to make that visit to the government house in Allens.

Cami being absent put a wrench in the works, but I think it's time to push harder for the trip. Because that warehouse will be the first, and it won't end in Clermont, either. Breathing deeply, I push the documents back into my desk drawer and lock. Cami will be busy helping Roy now. It'll be better to ply her when she's tired from the day.

For now, there's not much I can do but obey Roy's orders. Be myself. Focus on my Selection. Distract the country so well they forget who the Resurgence is. I call for a small breakfast to calm down, then double-check my appearance before I head down to the Men's Parlour.

The attendant outside frowns as I near.

"Is something wrong?" I ask.

"The gentlemen are not present inside. They are in the Grand Ballroom, preparing the Christmas Ball."

Oh yes. That.

I head down the stairs and along the hallway to see the door propped open, and enter into a bustle of activity. The remaining boys are scattered throughout the high-ceilinged room with polished herringbone floor, decorating and organising and some, even, practicing their waltz steps. Engineers on ladders tweak the lightbulbs on the giant chandeliers – Max is below, directing them. Avian and Parker hang tinsel along the friezes, and Valerian on the window sills. Levi helps the sound crew set up microphones and occasionally belts out a note to test the devices.

The actual ball is still three weeks away, but it's good to see physical process has been made. My contributions have been pretty much naught, and as palace press take opportunity to film shots for the Capital Report, I'm glad the others have worked so hard.

"Excited?"

I turn; Rudy sits in the corner with a leg propped up, nursing some sort of drink and keeping dutiful watch.

"Yes," I say, even if it doesn't sound it. "How are preparations?"

"Rather swimming, so far," he says. "The only drama we've had is when Kingsley mentioned he didn't like the wreathes Silas ordered from the florist, and in fairness, Silas did order them in crimson rather than festive red."

"Is… there a difference?"

"Silas argued not, and he's too stubborn to change it," Rudy said, gesturing to where he is at the back of the room, screwing in iron hooks on which the wreathes can hang. "Alas we're close to budget anyway, so nothing to be done."

"I didn't know there was a budget."

"Oh, there is. I'm not sure the gentlemen have realised that though. Romilda and I didn't tell them because they should have taken initiative to ask." Rudy laughs once. "I quite look forward to seeing how they view the giant Christmas tree ice sculpture they've spent a thousand dollars on when they realise they've left no money for a dessert chef."

I simultaneously want to laugh and facepalm. "You're looking forward to a bad ball?"

"I'm looking forward to innovation in times of pressure."

He takes a sip of what, up close, looks suspiciously like a gin and tonic, and I suspect Rudy has embraced chaos in all its Selection-shaped forms.

"Is there anything else I should know? I was planning on going on a date today."

"Soren and Ansel" – Rudy nods his head to them, both marking the floor with tape for tables and chairs – "have been absent for many of the meetings. Ansel I can understand now. Soren… I'm not sure."

I wander over to them. Ansel is silent as he rips tape off the roll and smooths it across the floor.

"Hello!" I pipe, bringing him out of his reverie.

He grimaces and stands to full height. "Hello, Your Highness."

"Are you feeling better today?" I whisper.

"If by which half of the Selected refuse to talk to me, then I suppose I'm feeling better."

Oh. Yikes. But it can't be helped. He _did_ start a food fight and force them all to clean up afterwards.

"Has the king put his foot down?" he mumbles. "Am I going home?"

It's kind of sad that that's the first thing Ansel thinks about when I approached. I haven't told him that Roy's patience will wear by the Elite, so I keep the information close to my chest to allow Ansel time to repair the rift between him and Jeremiah.

"I told you, I'm too cute for Roy to argue with." When Ansel nods, I mumble, "Have you spoken to…" my eyes search the room for Jeremiah, seated at the opposite side of the room, "him?"

"No."

Jeremiah's hunched over some blueprint plans for the dais for the head table, his concentration entirely on the project. Doesn't even wander over here. Maybe he's accepted that they are no longer friends?

"I didn't…" Ansel's hands curl into fists and back, "I don't know how to approach him."

"With a big, apologetic smile, of course," I say, taking his hand. "Come on. You can't avoid him forever."

"I was doing a good job trying," he grouses.

"I'll help you." Ignoring him, I pull him towards Jeremiah. "I want you to be friends again."

 _No meddling,_ said Rudy. He glares suspiciously at me as I half-drag Ansel to the table at the back. If there were superpowers that allowed you to burrow deep into someone's conscience, Rudy would have it, no question. Alas, all I'm doing is helping them be friends. I give him a reassuring smile at the same time Jeremiah looks up.

Startled, he glances back at his blueprints again, but his focus is wayward; by the clenching of his shoulders and rapid way he blinks, I can tell.

"Hi Jeremiah," I say sweetly, as Jeremiah looks up again. "Erm, Ansel has something to say."

Ansel shifts on the balls of his feet. "Hello."

"Hi," Jeremiah says coldly – it's probably the chilliest tone I've ever heard from him. "What do you want?"

"I, er," Ansel takes a deep breath. "I came to say sorry."

"For what?"

"For ignoring you for several weeks. It was stupid."

Jeremiah snorts. "Too right. And for what? Why'd you suddenly start doing that?"

Ansel hesitates. I give his hand a squeeze, if only to let him know I support him.

"I think the competition was getting to my head. I thought maybe if I stopped being friends with you I'd do better."

Jeremiah's gaze looks pointedly to our intertwined hands. "Yeah, well, guess that worked out for you."

I take my hand back. "It's not like that. I'm just here as a mediator. Ansel confessed he made a mistake to me and I want to help him fix it."

"And I'm sorry," Ansel blurts, cheeks colouring. "I… I realise what a moron I've been."

Jeremiah's pencil clatters to the table as he sits back. "You know I can't stay mad at you, Ansel, but hell, this was just weird, even for you."

"I know."

"And it… it hurt, you know? To lose you so suddenly."

Ansel's cheeks burn. "I know."

"And then that whole food fight? The hell was that about?"

"My frustration just… got to me."

It's a clever lie. Jeremiah eats it up as his shoulders drop. "All right. Long as you understand that the competition is never worth getting mad over."

"It's not." He swallows. Loudly. "So… can I sit here?"

"Can you?" asks Jeremiah. Only a moment later do I realise it's tinged with wryness.

"I can _physically_ sit there, yes." Ansel sighs and takes a seat anyway to Jeremiah's chuckle. "Hahah, very funny."

"You owe me several chess matches."

"That's fair enough."

"You have to let me win them all."

"Now that's pushing it."

Containing my delight, I shuffle my way out of the conversation. At least that's done now, and they're friends again. Tentatively. I don't think Jeremiah's completely forgiven Ansel, but where they're at is a good place to build trust. _And maybe some feelings,_ I think slyly. Operation Hillett is still ago.

Remembering why I came here originally and recalling Rudy's words of warning, I pick my way over to Soren, who is at the far wall sticking tape at intervals. He's so deeply invested in the task that he doesn't notice me.

He jolts when I step in front of him. "Oh, Your Highness." His haunches relax.

"Didn't mean to startle you. Sorry. Want some help?"

He hesitates, but hands me the tape roll, and I cut pieces off for him to stick on the skirting. It must be for the flower vases, the only logical explanation why there would be so many markers along the walls. How on earth have the Selected planned this?

"So," I begin, "Rudy says you haven't been around for many of the meetings."

He shrugs. "Everyone else seemed to have it sorted. I said I'd do whatever they wanted me to do."

"But didn't you want to have a voice in the running?"

"No. There are others more capable at management than me."

At first I bristle, but the more I think on it, the more I appreciate Soren recognised his own weaknesses and let others step forwards. It's a good quality to have as a person, and as a prince. It's also probably why he and Ansel have been foisted with the least interesting job of them all. Marking tape on the ground _cannot_ be fun.

"Besides," and there's a ghost of a smile on his lips as he jerks his head, directing my attention to Kingsley, who is doling out commands like the sun doles out light, "I think there would be a clash."

"You're probably right," I giggle.

He smiles. It's actually rather breath-taking. A Soren smile is a rare thing, and I feel satisfied to have earnt it. _I do need to ask someone on a date,_ I think. Maybe now is the perfect time. I gesture airily to one of the press photographers, and he dogs my heels.

"Are you busy?" I ask Soren.

"A little."

Obviously. I swallow. "Would you like to go on a date?"

At that he springs up. The sheer bewilderment on his face is palpable. I've really caught him off-guard.

"Oh, well… all right. If that's what you want."

"Yep!" I take the tape, place it on the ground, and loop my arm with his. "Let's go do something!"

I don't miss how the other boys stare lasers at us as we leave. If I were Soren I'd feel terribly smug about it, but then again, it's Soren, who doesn't feel terribly _much_ of anything at all. He's a steady hand as he guides me out into the hallway, and then pauses, first looking around, then looking at me. _So emotionless._ It's kind of eerie. Sometimes I think he's more robot than person.

"Where do you want to go?"

"Hmm. I'm not really sure. I didn't plan ahead."

"Do you ever plan ahead dates?"

It's a question often laced with teasing, but from Soren it's a genuine ask. "Not really, no, but that's the fun of life." I tap my lip. "You know I really could go for a picnic right now."

We both face the window at the end of the hall at the same time. Rain sloshes against the glass in a relentless, angry display of disaffection. No picnic today.

"Oooo!" I say. "How about an indoor picnic? I know we ate breakfast not that long ago… we can have lots of snacks instead."

"Okay. Where will we have it?"

Not my quarters or his. Too boring. "How about in the front foyer? Right by the doors?"

"… Where everyone can see?"

"Yep!"

"That's…" he rubs his head. "Yeah. Let's do it."

I feel bad for the chefs who have to whip up finger foods suitable for an indoor picnic ninja-quick, but they manage with the three main food groups: chips, chocolate, and candy. Junk food heaven is not great for my physique, but ssshhh. I lay a plaid blanket, some pillows and Blossom the giant pink teddy bear (because she is super soft) right below the rotunda's peak, and immediately I'm awash with déjà vu. I eliminated the last person I took on a picnic like this, and maybe the public will notice when media's photos go live, but I don't think Soren seems to care. Hopefully it won't end the same way.

I make sure to pose with Soren as much as possible. _A distraction._ That's what I need to be. It feels awkward, pretending to laugh, smile or even emote in the slightest way, but Soren has even more difficulty with it. Even conjuring an iota of contentment is a struggle that tugs the wrong ends of his facial muscles.

"A smile please, Sir Reinhart," says the photographer. "Not a grimace."

Soren swallows and tries again. A much better attempt, but his lips are mushed together. Kind of like he's going for a kiss at the same time.

"Nearly done," I encourage to him.

After the photographer is done and dashes off to leave us in privacy, I relax into Blossom and sigh. Soren droops into a cross-legged position, natural grimace shining from his face.

"That was… difficult."

"I could see you were having trouble, but it has be done."

"Wouldn't it be better to take photos in the middle of the date? When we're actually having… conversation?"

"Probably," I concede, "but I like my privacy. I want your smile for my own, and my laugh for yours."

Wow, that was a little full on romantic – where did that even come from? Even Soren seems jarred at the intimacy, blinking through wide-eyed confusion.

Blushing, I look away. "True for every date I go on. Anyway, what do you think of the food?"

He replies slowly. "It's… interesting."

"Too unhealthy for you?"

"Too much of it," he remarks instead.

"You don't have to eat everything. But I will be!" I grab one of the candy bars and rip open the packaging. No hockey tonight means _chooooocolate._ "Tuck in!"

He peels open a packet of Lays. Trepidation oozes off him as he nibbles cautiously on the end of the chip. Coward.

"I had planned," Soren begins between chomps, "to finish the taping the floor for the ball and then spend the afternoon writing my essay."

Oh. Yes. The numerous essays for JJ. Those things I totally haven't been neglecting for several weeks.

"Is that what you spend all your time doing? In your room?"

He shrugs. "I asked JJ for more work."

I nearly spit out the chocolate. "Ew! Why would you ask for more work?"

"I want to keep on track of everything. Just because I'm here doesn't mean I can slack."

What a work ethic. I frown. "Can you slack for an hour or two to have an enjoyable snacknic with me?"

"… Snacknic."

"It's _snack_ and _picnic_ mushed together."

"Yes, I…" he shakes his head and chuckles. A chuckle! "Yeah. I can slack for an hour or two."

We share snacks and stories. Soren tells me a little more his life back in Bankston with his parents, sisters and brother, and then describes juggling university, hockey and his part-time mechanics gig at once.

"I used to fix motorcycles mostly. They were my speciality."

"Oh, really?" I can't believe Max has competition with Soren, of all people, for biggest Angster with a Dark, Edgy Mode of Transportation. "You ride them too?"

"Used to, though I'm better at fixing than riding." After a moment's hesitation he takes off his suit jacket, unbuttons the cuff of his ivory shirt and rolls up the sleeve of his right arm. "Haven't ridden one since my accident, though."

I can't help the soft gasp I elicit. Down his forearm a scar runs, thick and bulbous and ugly. A clean cut. "What happened?"

"My first test run on the streets with my new bike. Grazed the side of a truck pretty hard."

I'm so shocked I don't know what else to say. "Whoa. That's horrible. Did you hurt anywhere else?"

"I got lucky," he admits. "Got a concussion too, but most of the damage missed my head. Just this."

I lean forward. Morbidly fascinated as I am, I blurt, "Can I touch it?"

He blinks again but offers his arm. Trembling, I rest my fingers along the seam. Ew, it feels so weird, but also warm, and barely disguises the pulse of his heartbeat beneath. Neither does it hide the corded muscle of his arm, hard and strong. I push at the scar and wiggle the protrusion.

"I've never seen a scar this big before."

"Hmm," but the sound of choked, strange.

I glance up at him. His cheeks are bright red, but his gaze is on the blanket. He's… blushing? I jerk backwards.

"Sorry, I'll stop."

"It's fine," he says, refusing to meet my eye as he rolls his sleeve back up. "What about you? Do you have any scars?"

 _That was a quick subject change._ Composing my seesaw emotions, I sit back into Blossom's soft embrace. "If I tell you, you have to keep it secret. And you can't laugh."

"… Why?"

"It's embarrassing."

He slides on his suit jacket. "All right."

"When I was five," I say, taking a deep breath, "my mom was in the middle of potty training me, but I fell over with my diaper down, and cut my butt on the side of the potty."

Soren covers his mouth.

"You're… serious?"

"Deadly," I say. "So now I have a tiny scar on my left buttcheek."

He lets out a little snort and squeezes his eyes shut. His body vibrates with amusement. So. He finds it funny. Of all the people I thought I could trust with this lethal information that could destroy my entire life, and Soren chooses _now_ to laugh.

"Hmph! It was a very scary ordeal, thank you! Sometimes my butt experiences phantom pain!"

"I'm… sure it was very scary." Soren coughs to regain a modicum of poise. "Thank you… for sharing that with me."

Not long after my fifth candy bar, my third lollipop and my second packet of chips I start to feel like I will spontaneously combust, and so we pack up the things. Soren didn't eat half as much as I did, but there's a sparkle of amusement in his eyes. At least he found the date fun. With the crate packed of our uneaten food and the blankets rolled, I haul up Blossom into my arms.

"Let me," he offers.

"Well, if you insist!"

I foist Blossom into his grasp and pick up the much-easier-for-my-short-arms crate and, stomachs full of sugar and crud, we waddle back to my quarters. Soren's stoic expression with bright pink Blossom the teddy bear is a hilarious contrast, and I have to giggle as I lead the way. It was a cute date, and Soren is odd, but also kind of adorable too.

 _Distraction._ My heart beats noisily as I think of an idea. I very nearly kissed Sheng at the chocolate festival weeks ago. Since then, I haven't given a second thought to kissing anyone else. What better way to steal the attention of thousands than by a public first kiss?

When we get to my room, I pull out my phone quickly and shoot a text to the photographer. _My quarters now please!_ Hopefully it conveys the urgent, but not desperate feelings behind what I'm about to do.

Naomi lets us inside, and I dump the box as Soren rests Blossom on the back of my bed. He turns to me, dipping his head slightly.

"Thank you. This was fun."

"It was," I say, grinning. "Are you going to study now?"

"Yeah."

"Okay."

Without warning, I snatch his hand and drag him back outside into the hallway. I wave Naomi away – wouldn't that be weird if she was in my first kissing photo?

"Erm, sorry to accost you like this. Can I kiss you?"

He blinks. "On the lips?"

"Mmm hmm."

"Oh. I—" For once he's not so articulate. "Yes. Okay."

Just as a figure skids around the corner, I pull Soren's jacket down to my height, and I kiss him square on the lips. He makes a noise like a startled seal, cheeks puffed, before his arms come down to rest on my waist, and his mouth parts to kiss back. His lips are… surprisingly soft and supple. I'm not sure what else I expected.

 _Click._ I pull back. Soren wobbles a little in a daze, and I grin. Out of the corner of my eye the photographer giddily checks his camera.

"That was nice," I murmur.

"Yeah," Soren chokes out. Still refuses to look at me.

"Erm… hope you don't mind that they took a photo."

"No, that's… that's fine."

"Okay." I let him go. "Thanks for the date. Bye!"

Wheeling around, I give the photographer a thumbs-up and then step inside my bedroom and shut the door. Finally, for a moment, I allow myself a breath. My heart's thumping like crazy; the kiss with Soren… I enjoyed it. Even if it was mostly one-sided.

And that photo will go live as soon as possible. _Distraction,_ complete.

* * *

When the sun has long set and the eerie chill of nightfall blankets the grounds of the palace, I tiptoe to Roy and Cami's quarters.

When I was younger, and Appa's death fresh on my mind, I used to come here almost every day. Omma didn't like being here by herself, in this place clearly built for two. Loveseats and double windows and a king-sized bed and large blankets. Sometimes I'd sleep on her sofa in the lounge, and her in the bedroom with the partition open between them, to keep her company. On worse nights I'd share the bed with her.

When Roy and eventually Cami moved in I did it less. They had each other, after all. But I'd visit often enough that even though the place changed – as Cami decorated the windowsills and Roy replaced pictures on the mantel and the smell of them infused with the furniture – somehow the cosiness, the heart of the place, felt the same.

After a brief knock, Cami opens the door. She looks tired, worn. A robe pools on the ground by her feet. About to go to bed, it seems.

"Hey, Gail. What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong." I peek over her shoulder. No sign of Roy. "Can I come in? I want to talk."

Cami opens the door and I step inside. An ornate rug greets my slippers, matching the damask curtains and warm auburn of the wood furnishings. Their lounge area is not as big as one might think, crammed with mismatched sofas and stained coffee tables. A dark orange ottoman takes space at the back wall where picture frame upon picture frame hangs. Lots from Cami's and Roy's childhoods. Lots of Cami's travels and Roy's unseen selfies. Some of me too, which warms my heart to see. The fire is blazing, which explains a pair of fluffy socks abandoned over the armchair's arm. Cami snatches them with a laugh.

"Sorry. Old habits. I forget I can just… throw it into the laundry after one use." She drops them into a wicker basket. "Roy's just gone to sleep."

I take a seat on the armchair and sink five feet into soft, plump cushions. "That's okay, I only wanted to talk to you."

Cami sits on the sofa. "All right. What's up?"

A sudden wave of guilt holds my tongue. I don't have to do this. Don't have to organise a trip to Allens to appease the rebels. I shouldn't bow to them, ever. But the consequences are too vast if I don't – all that money lost, all those people injured. The kiss with Soren definitely pulled away some of the negative attention the raid brought us, but it's like sticking a piece of tape on a ground fissure. It's not going to cover much, and definitely not for long.

So I square my shoulders. Bury my guilt. "Remember we were going to visit the Ivory House?"

"Ah, yes," Cami says. "I haven't forgotten. Recent things have… pushed it from my mind."

"I understand. But now more than ever we need to make a good impression, and I think showing our support to the prime minister and the government is a good step in the right direction."

"It's a nice idea," she admits, then glare at me down her nose. "I'm not sure we should permit it with your recent runaway stunt."

I blush. "I only really did that to make Roy mad."

"You made more than Roy mad, Gail," she says tersely. "Just because I wasn't here doesn't mean I didn't know about it."

Awkward. Withholding my own grimace, I attempt to sit up, only to sink further into the chair. "I'll be the most well-behaved angel. I will radiate the aura of someone who anonymously donates thousands to charities and helps rescue stray kittens from trees."

"I'd like to see you try that, Mother Theresa," Cami says, frowning. "But seriously. The timing…"

"Roy should be with Ahmed, don't you think?" I try. "He was on call with her today. Things would move much smoother if he was there."

"He's already planning to go," she says.

"And why can't we tag along?" In my last ditch effort I say, "Think of the publicity it will generate. I'm supposed to be doing activities with my Selected, right? _Politically engaged?_ If we're going to do it, we have to do it now. Before…" I gulp. "Before I decide my Elite."

Her eyes widen. "Are you close to choosing?"

"I… I have some names lined up, yes. Classes and exercises and presentations are great, but I need to see how the Selected are in places of real importance. In government, with whom they'll be associated for the rest of their lives."

Her shoulders sag. Cami takes a deep breath. I know she's just moments away from tipping to my side.

"You make a fair point," she concedes. "I nearly organised it before… before, well, you know." She rises from the chair. "All right. You've won me over."

I spring up. "Yay!"

"But you must be on your best behaviour. Fully attentive, willing to work." She gives me the _Cami_ stare that makes you feel like you deserve to sit in the corner and ruminate your mistakes. "And no… wildness. Okay?"

My thoughts jump to the document in my bedroom. _Proposed Changes to Illéan Infrastructure._ It's happening. Finally, I'll be able to meet Ahmed and pacify the rebels.

I really hope it works.

"Okay."

She shakes her head, chuckling. "Go on. I'm tried."

I give her a quick hug and then near the door. "You're the best sister, Cami."

"I know," she says.

Her smile lingers in my head even as I make my way back to my quarters. That insatiable guilt comes crashing back, yanking remorselessly at my heartstrings. It feels like I'm lying. I want to visit Allens, but for all the wrong reasons. This is a deep betrayal not only to me, but her as well.

The only thing that true is what I just said. Cami is the best sister.

And I'm the worst.

* * *

 **A/N:** Hi everyone! That's right, Gail and co are going to the Ivory House! Which promises to be an... interesting time for Gail, heheheh...

This is one of those chapters that is rammed with absolutely everything. Hockey, rebels, drama, ships, dates... and kisses?! Soren is Gail's first kiss. Was it deserved? Was it weird? Let me know your thoughts on everything. :D

It will likely be a two-week wait for the next chapter, as I've been a little poorly this week and haven't had much mental energy to write. Apologies, but I promise it'll be worth the wait.

Thanks for reading!

~ GWA

NTT: "Did you… did you enjoy that kiss?"


	40. The Ivory House, Part 1

Cami's meeting, plus my own determination, seems to spur the trip to the Ivory House, and it's organised so quickly that we're in the air headed for Allens after only three days.

In a convoy of aeroplanes, where Roy, Cami, Lilly, JJ, the Selected and I spearhead the four other fighter jets that follow, our enormous group touches down at JFK airport to a grand reception from media and press. The airport's hall is sectioned off to allow us swift passage into our convoy of vehicles, but it's hard to miss the mass of people that have come to welcome us to DC.

Unsurprisingly, most of them Selection fans.

They cheer and reach for my hand as I walk behind my family and wave through the barrier of security guards. Banners fly high, lots of them with my name on but just as many supporting the numerous Selected. _I Heartie Levi,_ says multiple, but also _#AvianfortheOne,_ _PRINCE PARKER,_ and _Yamato Wa-stan-a-bae._ Plus the weird ones like _Ansel is Daddy_ and _SOREN X KINGSLEY FOREVER,_ but they're in the minority.

I feel a brush of fabric at my side. In his starched grey suit, Sheng walks stiffly, shades covering his eyes, and to anyone else he's all stoic poise, but I can read him. There's no mistaking the taut jowls and tremble in his hands that give away how anxious he is.

"Look," I point to the left, "there's a sign for you."

 _MARRY ME SHENG,_ it says. A prickle runs up my back, as does the feeling of wanting to tear away the sign and throw it onto the ground, but I clamp it down and scan Sheng's face. His mouth opens into an _o_.

"I… didn't know I was popular."

"You're hot," I whisper to him, "and people like hot candidates."

It's not a secret that I find him hot. I told him as much when we started dating. Yet, he takes the comment by surprise.

"How about that one?" he says, directing my attention to the right.

 _SHENGAIL FOREVER,_ reads the sign that a rabid soccer mom holds up. I blush. Hmm. If you knew about our previous relationship, clueless Karen, you'd know that doesn't exactly hold much weight. Suddenly his hand is in mine, and the touch sends a dizzying sensation up my arm, so much that I have to slow down.

"W-What are you doing?" I ask him.

"Holding your hand," he mumbles.

"Yes I know, but _why?"_

"Because… because I would like to show you affection," he says. "I… would like to win the people as much as I would like to win you."

Well I can't exactly snatch my hand back, because that will spark the speculation tenfold. Judging by the pointing and _ooh_ ing and flashing of photos on camera phones, the crowd is also receptive to it, darn him and his annoyingly hot assertive gestures. As I squeeze his hand back and march on, I ask myself, do I… like holding his hand? It's clammy from nerves but steady, strong, intimidatingly attractive. Warm, fuzzy feelings pour into me, so reminiscent of our first dates that I can almost believe the Selection isn't happening at all.

Outside on the cordoned off tarmac, cool air chills my skin, so I hurry into a convoy with Sheng and others in tow. Funnily enough Kingsley is right behind, and raises his chin at Sheng and I's intertwined hands. Out of media sight I take my hand back, blushing to the backs of my ears. Such a small gesture, and yet it seems to mean the world. We travel in relative silence on the way to the Ivory House, with Kingsley holding most of the conversation between Sheng, Kajika and I. Say what I will about Kingsley, at least he's good at talking.

"I wonder if the Ivory House's Christmas decorations will be half as good as ours," he says, waving nonchalantly through the window to the last dregs of fans on the main roads. "I doubt it, though. Our decorations are simply divine."

"I'm looking forward to seeing the decorations completed," I say with a clap. "You helped to co-ordinate everything, is that right?"

"That's correct." Kingsley leans back. "I organised everything."

"Delegated, really," says Sheng, deadpan.

"Which is an important part of organisation, Sheng," Kingsley titters. "Without me, you'd all have no direction. No vision. No passion."

"So if it goes wrong," I tease, "I can blame you?"

"Trust me, Your Highness, it won't go wrong."

I giggle. "That's a good quality in a prince, you know. Organisation, delegation, and confidence in one's ability to do tasks."

I'm not sure why I say that. To poke at Sheng? To reassure Kingsley? It succeeds at both – too well. Kingsley grins, smartening like he's about to win the Nobel Prize for Existing, and Sheng meanwhile goes completely still at my side. But no rebuke, no comeback, and the rest of the ride Kingsley regales us with stories.

Soon enough, halfway through the Chronicles of Kingsley in the peak of his swimming career, we turn into the gates of the long drive. At the end waits the Ivory House. I lean forwards between Kingsley and Kajika to stare at the view. The gardens are trimmed, verdant acres that surround the prime minister's building, allowing it to stand in tall glory. It's nearly as big as the palace, with walls that climb into the sky, and a portico held by strong columns at the entrance. Right about the _ivory_ too; the off-white is a little grungy, even as people work to powerwash the windows from scaffolding.

Up close, blue Christmas lights twinkle from the balustrades and tinsel that lines the doors and windowsills rustle in the breeze. The car comes to a halt. Press cameras flash as we collectively exit. Even the air here smells different, fresher somehow. It's nice to get away from home for a little bit – minus the, you know, manhunt through the country for me.

On the steps waits the prime minister's cabinet. I recognise all the faces but am terrible with names. Defence Secretary Alexis Palladino is the only one I can think of, besides the prime minister herself, Wafiya Ahmed. She stands slightly forwards with her gloved hands clasped together, her navy hijab fluttering in the breeze. Tall, brown-skinned, regal as she steps forwards to curtsy to Roy. She's about ten years his senior but somehow they look the same age.

As she moves I spot another familiar face, standing quietly in the shadows behind. Gemima Chi. She looks the same since I last saw her – a little weathered and beaten, but composed. Also tall in heels, snug in a pantsuit, and black hair tied in a long, straight ponytail. She used to work at the palace as Omma's personal advisor, but since the change in government she transferred here to better use her skills. Quite famously she was the one who killed Walter Wolanski, the man who used to lead the Southern Rebels, during the rebel assault nine years ago.

After Wafiya greets Roy, Cami and the other adults, she comes to me. Her sombre expression brightens, and she boasts her pearly grin as she curtsies. "Your Highness, it is a pleasure to have you here."

"Thank you, Prime Minister. It's great to be here! I'm really excited to—" _To what, Gail? Shove the rebel documents into her hands and demand she read them?_ My chest clenches. "To look around and learn."

"There will be plenty of time for that, though I was under the impression," her dark eyes twinkle as they dart to my Selected, lined up at the foot of the stairs, "that this was a recreational trip more than anything else."

"We're all here to learn _and_ have fun," I say.

"That's very good of you," she says. "Feel free to ask me anything. I'm happy to help."

 _Ask you anything?_ I can't help but think. _How about I ask you to read the rebel documents currently masquerading inside a large jewellery box in my suitcase?_

"Oh, yes, that would be wonderful, thank you."

She smiles. It has big _mom_ vibes, even though she's not married and has no children. "I'm excited to meet all your Selected. I've been re-watching a few Selection episodes so I could learn all their names."

I force a giggle as she goes off to do just that. She's a gentle soul, Wafiya. It's awful that I have to test it with my rebel dealings.

Ivory House attendants come to take our luggage and show our servants to the servant wings – I see Rudy plant a quick kiss on Durante's cheek before following them. I wish Zelda were here, but she's staying back with June and a babysitter, still so grounded that soil is coming out of her ears. It's totally unfair not to have my best friend in a time I need her most, even if she wouldn't know for what.

Other attendants usher the rest of us into a relatively small reception, with chequered marble floor and velvet red carpet, rolled through the doorways. There's even more press here, cordoned off and punching us with questions. Most are aimed at Roy, but there are plenty for me too, and the Selected.

"Princess Gail! Will you be choosing your Elite soon?"

"Your first kiss with Soren was explosive! Is he your favourite to win?"

"What are you personally doing to aid against the Rebel Resurgence?"

The last one sends chills down my spine, but I ignore them all.

"Did you… did you enjoy that kiss?"

Kingsley's voice is quiet beneath the din of the room and his blindingly attractive smile as he waves. But as he walks at my side, I sense the tautness in his arms.

Oh. _Oh._ When I kissed Soren for the cameras to distract from the latest bad news, I didn't think about any of the negative repercussions. Repercussions such as jealous Selected. Thank god no one knows the kiss was engineered on my behalf. Part of me wonders if Soren has a clue.

"The kiss? With Soren? The kiss with Soren?" I ask to stall for time. What am I _supposed_ to say? Yes, and make Kingsley upset, or no, and inadvertently hurt Soren? I decide I can't lie. "Yes, I liked it. It was very nice."

"Only nice?" he prods.

"Sweet, then."

"I see. He's a dark horse." He pauses in the hallway and takes my hand, pressing a kiss to the back of my palm. A blush fights its way up my neck. "I'd like to be your second kiss."

"R-Right now?"

"Now, only if you want to."

Somehow the power in his voice makes my knees wobble. "Maybe not now then. Erm… how about… later? When there aren't so many people around?"

"A private kiss, then." He winks. "I will sweep you off your feet. You are a princess; you deserve much more than _nice_ and _sweet."_

And off he goes, leaving me a blushing, wild mess of a human. Right in front of the press too, which no doubt caught every moment with bewildered, but engaged, awe. _Who plans a kiss like that?_ I chide to myself as I hurry along, following my oblivious family ahead.

The central hallway glitters with Christmas decorations. Glass baubles hang from the ceiling, and the candelabras burn with vivid red candles. Wreathes decorate the walls (festive red or crimson, I can't tell) that match the ginormous Christmas tree at the end of the hall, its star touching the ceiling. The smell of it, too! Fresh pine fills my nostrils in a chilly hug.

"— should start the talks." I catch up to Roy, Cami and Lilly talking and signing with Wafiya and her cabinet. "No time to waste."

Wafiya frowns. "I'm eager too, Majesty, but I'd at least ask you to settle into your accommodations first, and then enjoy lunch with us."

Cami takes his arm, effectively cutting him short. "That sounds wonderful, thank you."

"I'm glad one of us sees sense."

They all look at Roy and chuckle, and he purses his lips in that comical _I take offence_ way that everyone knows is untrue. I smile too but my insides unfurl with relief – they'll be busy with talks, at least for now. I have time to gather mettle before approaching Wafiya with the rebel documents.

After we find our accommodations – my room a modest size with a king bed and a window with a view the ginormous back gardens – we head to lunch in the state dining room. White walls reflect the bright chandelier light against the thick, mint carpet. There are five round tables; one for the royal family and those with the highest state positions, one for the rest of the cabinet, and the other three for the Selected. Each are ornately decorated with golden-tipped cutlery, tea lights, and a vase of winter flowers.

My name placard is with the royal table, neatly tucked between Cami and someone called Kenley Plantagenet. I don't get much time to mull on the familiar name before a tall woman in her late fifties, early sixties appears at my side. Grey streaks through a sheer blonde ponytail, and she curtsies and me and shakes my hand.

"Pleasure to meet you, Your Highness," she says, eyes tipped low in some form of reverence. It allows me to see three beauty marks dotted on her cheeks. "My name is Kenley Plantagenet, but please, just Kenley."

The name slingshots back into my head. The leader of the Opposition party and the shadow cabinet, a.k.a. the political party with less seats in the House of Representatives right now. With Wafiya Ahmed leading the Governing party, she and Kenley are natural rivals.

"Pleasure to meet you as well, Ms Kenley. How fares the election campaign?"

"Very well, very well, thank you! I have high hopes come the vote in January. I think we've done well to pull a good amount of support from the general public."

"That's good." As royalty, I'm supposed to be apolitical – with no natural favour swinging to either the Governing or Opposition party. Reduces the chance of bias and corruption in sovereignty, but besides that, it means I don't have to pretend I know a thing about the two parties. "This is your first time running for the prime minister position, am I right?"

"That's correct." She smiles. Wafiya might have a _mom_ vibe but Kenley has a _grandma_ vibe, like at any moment she'll offer me cookies. "It's Wafiya's last few months in office. Quite astounding, really, given she's been here since the inception of parliament over six years ago."

Wafiya's party successor is seated next to Wafiya herself – a guy named Charles Schneider. The election campaign between him and Kenley has driven a modest, but decent amount of fanfare over the last few months. It's kind of sad to see Wafiya go though, like the end of the beginning of an era. I know Roy and Cami will miss her – they secretly think she's wonderful.

"And how goes your Selection?" Kenley asks as the starters are served. Crispy duck skin with chives. "Do forgive me if I poke around in your head too much! I'm eager to see your Elite choices!"

I can't help but scoff. "Me too, believe me."

As we eat I glance over at their tables, scouring each of their faces. Months ago I never thought I'd grow attached to any of these boys. All I wanted was to make a boy jealous. Now I don't want any of them to go, even to cut them down to the ranks of Elite. I know my ancestors went down to the Top Six as opposed to the Top Ten – so why can't I break the rules and open the boundary to Top Fifteen? What's five more boys?

My gaze hits another. Kingsley stares right back at me with low, hooded eyes. He winks and I look at my plate, trying not to blush. When I sneak a glance back up, Kingsley is no longer looking at me, but Sheng on the other table is, and it's with the same intensity as always. Assertive, almost dominating, swamping my entire vision. He might not wink and titter and make me swoon with his very existence, but he still sets my heart racing. Which is very annoying, considering I started this whole thing to do that to _him._

I find Ansel amongst the boys. Him and Jeremiah have been lumped onto the same table, right next to each other – thanks to Cami for not noticing the weirdness between the two of them. Still, Jeremiah is as jovial and sweet as ever, entertaining the table as he talks, and Ansel seems so drawn to it his gaze never wavers. He doesn't participate in the conversation much, but it's obvious how attuned he is to Jeremiah's words.

Jeremiah seems to try to include him, too, occasionally asking for Ansel's opinion or input. Ansel mumbles, looks away. Heartbreakingly he doesn't see the way that Jeremiah glances to the side, eyes charged with longing. The intensity of the expression hits me, as stark as a dumped pail of cold water on my head during a drought. That right there, it's unmistakeable. It's confirmation of his feelings if I've ever seen them.

I have to tell Ansel. Operation Hillett is _so_ a go.

After a main course of stuffed hen and a dessert of bread pudding, we are dismissed, and I make a beeline for Ansel. I take his arm and tug him to a secluded corner of the room – I don't have much time or privacy, with the boys soon to file out the doors.

"Okay, I'm like, ninety-nine per cent sure Jeremiah feels the same way."

" _What?"_ Ansel mutters, clearly perturbed by my abruptness. "Did you ask him?"

"Well, no, but I saw the way he looked at you! It was like desperately wishing you were his. He's majorly crushing."

Ansel starts, then stops, then starts again. "He knows something is wrong. He keeps taking me aside and asking if I'm all right."

"Well, tell him how you feel! Because from my perspective he feels the same way. You could be the happiest guy alive by tonight—!"

A tinkling glass interrupts. Wafiya, calling for our attention.

"Apologies, apologies. Before you go, Your Highness, Selected, I thought you might like a tour of the building and grounds. The sun sets a little earlier here than it does in Los Angeles, so now is a good time to see everything in natural light. Miss Chi will be happy to walk you around. The rest of us," she turns sympathetically to Roy, "to business."

I'm herded away from Ansel, cutting off the rest of the conversation. But it's okay. Now he knows. Now he can feel confident in his decision to confess. And at least, if I'm going to have a rough time dealing with rebels, Ansel will find the semblance of happiness he so deserves.

Ooooh, they're going to be so adorable together!

In the central hallway, our party awaits the tour. With Lilly in attendance to the talks, JJ makes easy conversation with the Selected who mill restlessly, tugging on blazer sleeves and adjusting ties. Something about this place makes people feel on guard all the time, myself included. I straighten my back. Maybe it's the constant presence of people, press and politicians. Maybe it's just the sheer exuberance of the place. Probably it's both.

"Your Highness, it's so good to see you again. You've grown."

Gemima Chi approaches with a wide smile. Up close she has the ethereal appearance of immortality – it's been about six years since she left palace service and she looks better than ever. Glowing pale skin and barely a wrinkle. Then again, it could be the Chinese genes, and I kind of hope my Korean heritage will age me as beautifully as her when I grow old.

We exchange a short hug and she admires me from all angles. "You've grown so much. How's your mother?"

"Very well. She asked me to pass on her regards. Tay also said hi."

She raises her brow. "He did?"

"Erm, well, no, but Omma told him to say hi to you. So he did, but he was confused because you weren't there."

"I wasn't sure he'd even remember me." She warms slightly at the gesture. "Now, a tour of the grounds then? I'm quite familiar with its history."

She gathers the Selected and introduces herself, and the tour begins in the central hallway. Briefly she goes over every painting that hangs on the wall, of all the past presidents who once ruled the country. They all have such beady eyes, watching with intensity. Scrutinising our souls. I wonder if they look upon me now knowing I'm actively colluding with rebels, sworn enemies. That might explain why their faces seem so… disappointed.

It's hard to pay attention when eventually they all start to blend together. Some listen intently; Ben, naturally, is fascinated when we come to the twenty-first century presidents as Gemima regales us with their ups and downs. Kajika and Jeremiah are rapt when she discusses the Ivory House' architecture and construction, using words that fly over my head like _lunette_ and _neoclassical_ and _Ionic colonnaded loggia._ JJ inputs his own embellishments that make everyone laugh. And there are boys who are clearly trying very hard to be interested but fail miserably, like Sheng, who blinks five times every so often to stay attuned, and Parker, whose head at one point droops onto Avian's shoulder. Avian shoves him off, withholding a laugh as Parker stumbles.

"Are you," a whisper comes from Elliot, "are you paying attention?"

"I-I'm trying," I admit.

"Oh. Sorry."

"No, no, you're not interrupting," I say, and Elliot takes another furtive step closer to me. "My brain can't really take in much, especially when it comes to a bunch of dead people."

He chuckles. "I feel that." Then, after a moment's hesitation, he says, "Want to ditch?"

"What?"

"The tour." He shies. "Never mind. It was a bad suggestion."

"No!" I say, a little too loudly. Gemima's eyes dart to mine and crinkle with amusement before she turns back to the portrait. "No, that would actually be much preferred. Let's do our own tour."

So much for _learning._ Wafiya was right – this was definitely more recreational than anything serious, even though the task I have to do is the most serious of all. For now, I decide to forget it and take Elliot's arm, and hurry him away before anyone notices. We leap into a side room, peer from around the door, and giggle helplessly when the tour moves beyond our point of view.

"Whew. Think anyone noticed?"

"Probably, but no one objected, so no one can complain."

I imagine the adults will think I've dragged Elliot into a corner to make out somewhere. Blushing at the thought, I turn and survey the room. Immediately I know we're not supposed to be in here; a long conference table fills most of the space in front of a brick fire place, stoked high behind a safety screen. Blank notepads embossed with the prime minister's crest in the corner sit at incremental spaces, to match with every chair. This is definitely a business meeting room. Thank goodness no one was here when we stumbled inside.

"Who's that?" Elliot asks, drawing my eye to the painting above the brick mantle. Some thin guy in a long top hat.

"I have no idea. What's the plaque say?"

" _Abraham Lincoln?"_

"… Yeah, that doesn't help."

"I thought you were supposed to know all these," he teases.

"Humph!" I cross my arms and pout. "I have far too much other important stuff in my head, thank you."

"Like?"

"Wouldn't you want to know?"

"Would it be bad if I said yes?" He drifts to the table and halts, frowning. His thumb jerks to two briefcases that are almost hidden behind the head chair. "Er, do you think we're supposed to be in here?"

I kneel and peek at them. Elliot runs his finger over the darkest one, inscribed with initials.

"K. P.," Elliot says.

"Kim Possible—? No, wait. I think that's Kenley Plantagenet."

"Oh." He stands up and backs away. "If that's supposed to be Plantagenet's top secret briefcase, we probably shouldn't be in here."

I can't help but giggle. "That's kind of the fun of it, don't you think?"

"What, sneaking around?"

"Yeah! Like… espionage!" I wander the room, soaking in the pretty architecture. "I bet this place would be so fun to play hide and seek in!"

"But this looks like important stuff." Elliot hauls the briefcases onto the table to inspect the other initials. I don't recognise them. "I don't know…"

"I mean, we're not going to snoop in them. I don't think anyone will mind if we're here. Besides, I'm the princess. I outrank everyone."

"Fair point." He tucks the briefcases under the table and then heads from fireplace to window, and his eyes round in awe. "Wow, look, Princess. That view."

The back gardens go on for acres. Beyond the private grounds, regular citizens mill about their day, walking dogs or jogging or catching up with friends. It feels more sociable than the isolated gardens of the palace. They're not confined to the enjoyment of five people, but hundreds, probably millions.

"It is a nice view." I rest on the window sill. "Not as good as the one from the palace, but still."

"I'll agree to that. Do you ever wonder what you'd be doing if you weren't a princess?"

The question catches me off-guard. Frankly it's too early in the day for such deep thought, but I humour him as I place a finger to my lips. "A hockey player, obviously."

He hits his forehead. "Duh."

"Ooooo, I'd totally have my own team. The colour would be pink and we would be called the Schreave Unicorns."

"There's no alliteration."

"Wouldn't need it. We'd be so exceptional."

He laughs. "I can't imagine you on a hockey team."

Hah. The irony.

"Then you need to work harder on your imagination."

We people-watch for a little while as we exchange pleasant small talk. What I like about Elliot is that he's just easy to be around. There's no pressure when I'm with him. He understands me and I understand him.

(Plus hockey, but ssssh.)

"— insist I had it."

The voice jolts me up. It's coming from outside the door. Elliot hears it too, and he straightens.

"Blithering idiot," mutters another. Is that… Kenley? She doesn't sound too happy, and fear strikes my heart. "Do you know how important my briefcase is? If it's lost it could jeopardise—"

The door opens. In that split second, I make what could be either a genius or heinously stupid decision to grab Elliot by the collar and kiss him smack on the lips. He makes a noise of surprise just as Kenley and another person, some secretary maybe, stop dead in their tracks at the sight of us.

I push Elliot off, going bright red. At least that part I don't have to act. "Oh, erm, how embarrassing—"

"Your Highness, Sir Sawyer!" Kenley and the other person dip into curtsies, but Kenley's face is puffed in displeasure. "You shouldn't be in here. This is one of our conference rooms for the shadow cabinet."

Guilty, both Elliot and I scramble to stand. "S-Sorry," I mumble. "We just— er—"

But Kenley softens. "It's all right, I should've knocked. My assistant has lost our briefcases and we've been on the hunt for them."

"They're under the table," says Elliot kindly.

The assistant scrambles retrieves them with a sigh of relief. The other must be hers. Kenley's shoulders slump at the sight of them.

"Thank you, thank you. They weren't open or anything, were they?" At the shake of our heads, Kenley smiles. "There was a lot of confidential information in there. You really ought not to be here."

"Yes, sorry, we'll go."

Kenley and the assistant leave us after they shut the door behind. I watch them hurry down the hallway in silence. Well that was weird. I can understand anger but calling your own assistant a _blithering idiot?_

"So much for grandma vibes," I remark.

"Yeah."

I turn to Elliot. His face his bright red.

Oh, yes. The kiss.

"S-Sorry, I know I just grabbed you and pulled you in," I say. His blushing is making _me_ blush. "I thought it might make them less angry—"

He cuts me off swiftly by pulling me into another kiss. It's my turn to make a noise of surprise as Elliot's arms envelop me. Soft, gentle lips caress my own, and my heart immediately rapid fire gunshots in my chest. Oh gosh, this boy can _kiss._

Just as it starts to get really good, it's over. Elliot blinks, then releases me.

"I-I don't know what came over me— I'm so sorry—"

"No no," I say, taking his hand. "That's okay. It was… sweet. I liked it."

"You did?"

"Mmm hmm. You're the first Selected to go for a kiss with me."

He smarts. "Then what was Soren?"

Ah. Hmm. "I kissed him first, but it was nice to be the receiver, too."

"Yes, I—" He clears his throat. "Well, I'm glad you liked it. We should… er, we should go find the others now."

Charmed by his adorableness, I hold his hand as we find our party again. Directions from politicians help, and we find Gemima, JJ and the Selected admiring the topiaries in the front gardens. Gravel crunches beneath our feet, announcing our arrival in everything but fanfare, and more than a few of the Selected boys notice our intertwined hands.

Elliot lets go as raised eyebrows find us. Kingsley is definitely a pair of those, and he leers at Elliot like he's personally murdered his own family. Sheng is shocked too, open-mouthed, but there are others who show their surprise in less telling ways. Max looks away too quickly. Silas lets out a cough.

Tell no one I think this, but having so many boys fighting over me is kind of hot.

The group is definitely smaller since we left them, though. As Gemima rubs the leaves of the hedge in the pads of her fingers, I count mentally, and realise.

Ansel and Jeremiah are missing.

Oh my gosh. That cannot be a coincidence! I didn't think Ansel would rush in so fast to confess. Will they both be okay? Best case scenario: I walk in on them kissing. Worst case scenario? Someone other than me catches them kissing and immediately calls for punishment for treason. Dismissing myself quietly, I head back into the Ivory House. Hillett can't have gone far, surely? What places are there to be private inside?

I hurry along, retracing the path of the tour's movements and peering into dining rooms and state receiving chambers as I go. I pass people who bow and curtsy and give me directions back to the tour group, all of which I ignore. Only until I find the men's bathrooms, tucked into the corner of the long central hallway, do I hear familiar voices. Yelling.

I crack open the door to the men's restroom.

Jeremiah, in tears. Ansel, also in tears. Both are five feet apart. Ansel is clenching the sink countertop, knuckles white.

Oh gosh. So there are worse scenarios.

"I don't want to hurt you, Jeremiah!" Ansel insists. "I just thought you might feel— I just wanted to get it off my chest, that's all."

"For _your_ sake! Did you think about me? What this could mean for me? How am I—" He buries his head in his hand. "How can I genuinely participate in this competition knowing that you're in love with me?"

"Don't make it sound so horrible," Ansel snaps. "I get it, I'm terrible—"

"That's not it," he cuts across cleanly. "Ansel, you're a great guy, but you've ambushed me with this. I came here to get away from drama. Now what am I supposed to do? Romance the princess as you watch?"

Ansel hisses and steps back. "Look, just say you don't feel the same, and leave it at that."

"T-That's not the point!"

"Then what is? Because you could've just said you didn't feel the same way and left it alone!"

"I just wish you hadn't told me!" He lets out a long growl. "I wish I didn't know!"

 _Oh. Snap._

Ansel blanches too. The words seem like a dagger to the heart.

"Fine. Forget I said anything."

"Ansel, wait—"

I dive into an alcove as the door opens and Ansel storms out. After a few moments, Jeremiah appears meekly, and shuffles towards the Selected's dorm.

* * *

 **A/N:** Big oof. Hello everyone, hope you enjoyed the chapter... enjoyed it more than Ansel did, at least...

So the secret lets slip. Poor Ansel! Poor Jeremiah! What's going to happen to them now? Is Elliot a contender for Gail's heart? Will Kingsley get the second (ahem, fourth) kiss with Gail? And will Gail muster the courage to give Prime Minister Ahmed the rebel demands? Tensions are rising in every corner of Gail's world...

As next Sunday is my birthday, I'm not actually sure if I'll be able to update (look at me, with a social life!). I'll let you all know nearer the time.

Thanks for reading!

~ GWA

NTT: "If I were a worm, would you still want to date me?"


	41. The Ivory House, Part 2

I hide in the alcove besides the men's bathrooms for what must be years. Time becomes ethereal as I contemplate the meaning of life and my own existence. Life flashes before my eyes as it does crawl. I see the future and the past. Everything is true and false.

Then an old man comes out of the bathroom, scratching his bottom and looking furtively both ways down the corridor, and I remember what just happened. Ansel and Jeremiah arguing in the bathroom.

Oh gosh.

After checking the coast is clear, I slowly patter into the hallway, too stunned to do much else but wander. Ansel confessed his love for Jeremiah in whatever way he did, and Jeremiah… did not take it well. At all.

 _I wish you hadn't told me._

Did I push too hard? The distress was obvious in Jeremiah's voice, let alone in his face. Raw timbre, puffed eyes. Suddenly keeping him here doesn't seem like that good an idea than it was when Ansel confessed the truth about his affections to me. I wanted Hillett to sail, not sink.

"Is everything okay, Your Highness?"

I startle at the voice. It's one of the Ivory House's guard patrol.

"I'm fine, thank you. Just lost."

"Where do you need to go?"

I should've specified that I was lost _in my head._ No physical place can help me find my way back. Still, I ask him to direct me towards the tour group, and he leads me to the front entrance foyer, where we were greeted earlier today. I wait behind a pillar so the hungry press, still here, cannot see me, and they futilely attempt to batter the oblivious Selected with questions. Gemima continues nonetheless.

"— where the next inauguration of the prime minister will be held. They will walk through this front entrance to fanfare with their family, and firstly take a tour of the place before settling in. As you know, with the upcoming election, that will be either Charles Schneider or Kenley Plantagenet."

In front of press, the Selected are so much more attentive. Ansel and Jeremiah are, of course, absent, but the others are listening intently. Ben's pulled out a notebook and is scribbling. Most are nodding along to Gemima's words.

"That's all." Gemima tilts her head to see outside. "I see it is now pitch black. Good timing."

"Excellent timing, and an excellent tour!" JJ shakes Gemima's hand. "Thank you, Miss Chi!"

She seems exasperated but thankful. "No problem."

"And that also means," JJ rounds on the boys, "that I can set you all a quiz on all we've learnt today! So I hope you were paying considerable attention!"

The boys groan.

Dismissed for a recreational hour or two, I re-join the group as we head back to the guest quarters. It's several boys to several rooms, but they share a common area so it's like one big party. Much like the other state rooms, the Selected's lounge has all the sofas, coffee tables and ornate rugs you could want, to match the high walls and roasting fireplace. This one is a lot bigger than the others but it barely contains the explosive chatter that occurs when the doors close.

Tentatively, I go to Ansel's assigned room. He's not there. Jeremiah isn't in his either, so I can only imagine they're taking separate walks to cool off. Seeing other people right now might only remind them of each other.

As I'm chewing my lip, Ben sidles up to me. "Looking for them too, huh?"

"What? Who? I don't know what you mean."

He raises an eyebrow. "Ansel and Jeremiah. I saw Ansel grab Jeremiah's arm and they skived off the tour. Haven't seen them since."

Oh. So I wasn't the only one to notice.

"I'm just worried they're lost, is all."

"I wouldn't be. Guards will help them around." He frowns, but not unkindly. "Haven't seen you much since our date."

I resist the urge to wince. Ben's not the only person I've been neglecting. "I'm sorry. I've been busy."

"Are you busy now?"

My eyes crinkle. "Are you implying something, Mr Santiago?"

"It's _sir_ actually." He sticks out his tongue. "And I am not-so-subtly implying we hang out."

"What a grand suggestion." I hold out my arm, and Ben takes it. "Lead the way, Sir Santiago."

Ben really must've been listening to the tour, because he immediately knows the way to the games' room. It's the most humble of all the rooms in this entire place. Small, contained, and every inch of wall decorated with portraits. Square windows overlook one of the side courtyards, allowing light to breath on the lonesome billiards table in the centre.

From the side, Ben takes the billiards sticks and scrutinises them, then takes a block of chalk to the tips.

"Do you play?" he asks. "Pool, I mean?"

I don't even know the difference between pool, snooker and billiards. "Not so much. I can hold the stick though!" I say brightly.

"You mean the cue?"

"T-That's what I said."

He hands me the stick— er, cue. "All right. Let's play. I'll teach you as we go along."

I take the red and yellow balls out of the machine and help Ben to fit them into the triangular mould. The singular black ball he slots into the centre, and then removes the mould, leaving the perfect triangle formation behind. By the way he knew where to place them all, he must've played before. Am I about to get politely decimated?

After he places the white cue ball down, he steps back and gestures. "Ladies first. Show me what you've got."

I poke the cue into the cue ball. It rolls and barely touches the tip of the triangle. If the balls were people, they wouldn't even be in spitting distance.

"How'd I do?" I ask him.

He rolls his lips. "Well, you were cute doing it, at least."

"Is that a compliment or an insult?"

"Both. You are very cute, Gail, but also very clueless. Here." He bends down and wraps his arms around me. Very subtle. "Let me show you how to hold the cue."

Oh my. Nothing like a hug from behind. I lavish in his delightful scent – a spicy, festive aroma – as he guides my arms over the cue. Bent over the table like this, I really hope no one walks in, because as comfy as I feel it'll probably look sordid from any other angle. Ben strengthens my grip and adjusts my posture, and then redoes the ball positions.

"Try now, with more gusto."

The ball sails and hits the triangle, and red and yellow balls rebound off the momentum. One goes so far as to hit the cushion.

"Yay!" I say.

"Don't get too cocky," he teases. "My turn."

I swear he boasts his lean body as he presses flat onto the table and thwacks the cue ball. It glides like a pond skimmer over water and hits one of the red balls into the pockets.

"One point to me."

"Just wait," I say. "I'll be rolling in points."

Ben spends the next five minutes scoring ball after ball, as I watch helplessly from the side lines.

"Hey, random question," he says, punctuating our small talk, "if I wear a worm, would you still want to date me?"

"A worm?"

"A worm."

"Hmm…" As Ben lines up to pocket the last red ball, I scratch my chin. "I think it would depend. Would I know it's you? Could you talk? Because worms are kind of icky."

"If I couldn't talk."

"I mean, if I couldn't tell it was you, I'd just think you were the same as any other worm. I'd probably put you outside to be with the other, happy worms."

He mocks hurts. "And what if I could talk?"

"I wouldn't date a worm. I still think they're icky!"

He pouts. "Not even Benworm?"

"Not even Benworm. I mean, how would that work?"

"They made it work in the Bee Movie."

"The what movie?"

"Never mind. But you'd be my friend, right?"

"Of course I'd be your friend! I would build you a worm house in our garden so you could be the coolest worm of all the palace worms. Like… a tiny bed. And a TV. Oooo, it'd be like a doll house! Except for a worm. So… a worm house."

Ben hits the last red ball, but lo and behold, it misses the pocket, and he blows out a raspberry as he flicks a rogue hair from his eyes. I jump up from my chair, buzzing.

"You really weren't going easy on me, were you?"

"Not unless you want me to?"

"Never!" I cry.

He laughs as he sits down. As I crack my knuckles to attempt to hit my first yellow ball, Ben interjects, "What if I was a big worm? Like, the size of a human, and also very handsome?"

"Worms can't be handsome."

"Benworm is as handsome as his namesake."

"So not at all handsome?"

My attempts to hit the yellow balls into the pocket fail so badly that Ben deliberately botches his turns to give me multiple goes. By my sixth extra go, I throw in the towel and allow Ben to score the black ball and win the game. Boo. After a few more rounds my pinkie finger (very specifically) starts to ache, so we call it a day and head around on our own tour.

My mind drifts to earlier as Ben monologues some old history facts. I can't really help but think of poor Ansel and Jeremiah. Maybe I should've chased after one of them, gone for the comforting touch – it probably would've been better than leaving them to sulk alone, especially after I encouraged Ansel to go for it. He at least knows he has a shoulder to cry on, but Jeremiah must think he has to burden the knowledge alone. That hurts my heart.

"You know about them, huh?"

The change in Ben's bubbly tone jars me back to reality. "Huh? What?"

He hesitates, then murmurs, "Ansel and Jeremiah."

Alarm bells ring in my head. "I know _what_ exactly about them?"

"It's all right. I… er, kind of figured out that catching feelings was the reason why Ansel was blanking Jeremiah so hard. Jeremiah's usually so attuned to these things, but he's oblivious as a rock when it comes to himself."

Well, this took an unexpected turn. For a moment I'm too stunned to say anything. If Ben knows, how many others have guessed? Ansel must not have been as subtle as he thought.

"I'm surprised you haven't eliminated him yet," Ben notes.

"It's… erm… complicated," I admit. "I guess I'm just worried about both of them."

Ben smirks. "Yeah, or they could be making out somewhere. Pretty confident Jeremiah feels the same way."

I freeze. Ben has _no_ idea about the bathroom argument. I mean, I wouldn't expect him to… A familiar sensation prickles down my throat. His thoughts echoed mine from not more than a few hours ago. Now it's inconceivable that Jeremiah returns any of Ansel's affections, and I consider telling Ben about the bathroom argument, but my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth.

"If that did happen, then I would have to eliminate both of them," I say, trying to match his jovial spirit and failing miserably. Instead I cut the conversation by tugging his arm. "I'm a little tired. Mind if we go back now?"

"Of course."

We go back and entertain ourselves until dinner. Ansel isn't here; at some point he must have slipped into his bedroom and cited sickness as reason for his isolation, but I know otherwise. Jeremiah is at his table, but looks paler than usual and not at all talkative; he retires early without giving me a chance to talk to him. Kenley is absent too, but I don't miss her after that weird display this morning. Wafiya makes a rousing speech about how lovely it is that we're all here and how hopeful she is for our future, and then she jokes that she's already forgotten the names of my Selected – we all laugh at that – and that I'm the luckiest girl alive to have such wonderful gentlemen in my stead.

Which isn't so true, but I smile and thank her anyway.

It occurs to me halfway through wolfing the sticky toffee pudding that the day is almost up, and I haven't made a lick in the popsicle that is handing over the rebel demands. The plan is to stay until tomorrow afternoon, so I don't have much time at all to muster the courage, and I know I won't sleep if I don't try tonight and let the inevitable rejection slide off my shoulders.

No, it has to be today. It has to be after this dinner, in fact.

When we're dismissed, I head to my room. To my surprise, Aderyn is there, but not fussing with the heavy brocade curtains or smoothing the navy blue damask bedsheets, but… on her phone.

She's texting.

Adeyrn, texting on the job? It's unheard of. I close the door as her fingers move furiously over her smartphone keyboard. At one point she lets out a little snort.

"Who're you texting?" I ask.

She shrieks, jumps, and drops her phone on the padded windowsill at the same time. Eyes alight, they calm when they settle on me.

"Gosh, Your Highness! How did you get in so quietly?"

I shrug. "I wasn't quiet. You were just so focused on your phone."

"Yes, right." A blush creeps up her neck as she shoves it into her dress pocket. "Apologies. I shouldn't have been texting on the job."

"I don't mind."

Silence falls. Ever since her reprimand for Las Vegas, Aderyn has kept her distance with me. She always asks how the latest hockey games are, and I understand that, for her sake, she's trying to stay out of trouble, but it's not the same. There's a gap between us that wasn't there before.

I sink onto the edge of the bed as Aderyn goes to plump the cushions.

"So… who were you texting?"

"No one," says Aderyn. "Would you like four pillows today? Or two?"

"Erm, four. Seriously though, who were you texting? You never text on the job."

Her puffing cheeks do little to hide the redness. "Yes, and, er, it won't happen again."

"Is it Rose?"

At that she stutters. "N-No, don't be silly, it certainly is not Rose Lamb, she has better things to do than send me memes—"

"Ooooh my gosh!" I throw myself up to stand. "You _are_ texting her! When did you get her number?"

Aderyn huffs and spins around so I can no longer see her face. "After the dinner. Does it matter? It's just banter and silly jokes. Nothing that should be concerning."

"Oh, I'm not concerned," I hum.

Aderyn turns back around and takes naught-point-two seconds to read my expression. "What? No! There's nothing going on like that!"

"Are you _sure?"_ I tease.

"Quite sure," she insists, nose in the air. "I haven't seen her since Las Vegas anyway. So there."

"Well, erm… you're always welcome to come to practice…"

It softens her brow. "Maybe," she hedges in the end.

Just like that, conversation over.

I send Aderyn out to fetch towels and take the moment to refresh myself and furtively produce the documents from my jewellery box. _Proposed Changes to Illéan Infrastructure._ This is it. A month of teetering and seesawing and procrastinating this meeting, and it's finally here.

I find Wafiya Ahmed spending the last few hours before bedtime in one of the state receiving rooms, called the East Room, after being directed there by about five different people. It's not particularly large but there's very little furniture, making the room spacious and free, and making my entrance not so much a surprise. It does shock me though to see Wafiya at the piano, lilting out a gentle tune.

The grand piano itself must be why the room has no furniture. It's a place purely to stand, to listen. The body is a fine mahogany, but the legs are carved from gold, shaped like eagles, and draw my attention first. Quite a masterpiece in creation, and Wafiya expertly glides her fingers across the keys to play an old, soulful tune that sets my nerves ablaze. She seems to stop and start aplenty, but when she gets it right, the melody tugs all the strings in my heart.

I was nervous before, and now I'm like fifty times worse.

Wafiya's notes crawl into silence, and she stands and curtsies. "I wasn't expecting visitors, I have to admit, Your Highness. My playing is a little rusty."

 _That_ was rusty? "I think you played beautifully," I say hoarsely.

She smiles. "Thank you. Do you play?"

"Oh, no." I don't know why I start blushing. "I'm not musically talented."

"Talent will never be better than practice," she says. "And it's never too late to learn something new."

My palms sweat so much the files nearly slip from my grasp. I clear my throat and step forwards. It's just us. Naomi and co. wait outside with Wafiya's guard. There's no better time to ask.

"A-Actually, I… erm…" All this time and I didn't think for a second _what_ I was going to say, and my brain works overtime to cobble something together. "I-I wrote this, and I was… er, hoping you'd take a look."

 _Gosh, that couldn't have been worse, Gail._

"Oh?" She reaches forwards and takes the file from my hand, eyebrows concaving as she reads the first few lines. "What is this, may I ask?"

"Roy and Cami have been encouraging me to, erm, think about the bigger picture. So I thought… well, I thought to take some of my ideas and present them to you. I-I wondered if you could… put them into practice?"

She sinks back onto the piano seat as her head dips to read. After an agonising two-page space of silence, she looks up at me. Frowning.

"Many of these will have to have laws completely rewritten—"

"That's okay—"

"And approved by the cabinet. Members of parliament vote. Some" – she winced – "may not approve of these. For example, the stricter firearm laws? Some believe it is a constitutional right to bear arms, and that they should be easily accessible."

The irony of the _rebels_ asking for stricter gun laws is not lost on me.

"Hmm, as far as composition goes, the wording is too vague in some parts. How long did it take you to write this?"

"S-Several weeks," I lie. "I-It's not supposed to be definitive or verbatim. Just, erm, a building block."

"I see."

She reads a few more pages. No. She cannot reject this. I want, _need,_ her to consider what's written within. It doesn't have to be instantaneous change – surely even the rebels know that's impossible – but it does need to be on the horizon. By the time she's six pages in, she smiles and hands the document back to me.

"It's a good start, Your Highness. You're thinking on the right lines – thinking like a true politician. I like how in-depth you go into nationwide consequences for changes. But the timeline, if I'm frank, is impossible to meet. What you're asking for is an overhaul of many laws in a short space of time." She smiles. "But this is a nice exercise, and I'm thrilled to see you taking a more active stance in the future of this country. Young people like yourself are the life blood of Illéa."

Regretting my angle that this was merely an exercise, I take a deep breath and offer it to her. "I-I'd like you to keep it. Please." Quickly I add, "I-I have other copies."

Instead she frowns harder. "Thank you. That's very kind." But she takes the document and tucks it under the chair. "If you don't mind."

She bows her head and turns back to the piano, and before I know it, my legs are robotically heading towards the door, moving as thoughts scamper in my head. She took the documents, but she won't consider it anything more than a princess' lousy first attempts to better the country. My heart sinks deeper and deeper into the pit of my stomach, and the flush on my cheeks brightens. I have the urge to run out of the room and throw myself under my pillow in embarrassment, but the door clicks shut slowly behind me.

I failed. The rebels will never forgive me.

"Your Highness?"

JJ's voice pricks my thought bubbles. He stands close to the door, hands tucked in trouser pockets. It's more formal than I've ever seen him at the palace.

"Oh, er, hello, JJ," I say awkwardly. "What are you doing?"

"I'm sure I could ask you the same question. Curiosity burned at me; I couldn't help but follow you here when I saw you walking around." He nods his head to the door. "The prime minister plays well, don't you think?"

I nod, but my smile doesn't reach my eyes no matter how hard I try to force it. "Yes, really well. I, erm, I'd better be going."

"All right. Have a good evening."

I look back as I walk away. JJ sits at the window sill by the door and listens to the music that plays off Wafiya's piano.

 _Easy for some,_ I think, as I head to my bedroom, despondant.

* * *

A dreamless sleep into a beautiful, blue-sky day hasn't dispelled any of the terrible dread that coalesces in my stomach. I tried to give Wafiya the documents – subtly, of course. I _tried._ The rebels, the Voice, cannot fault me for trying. It's not my fault that Wafiya saw the proposed changes as a high schooler's term paper more than anything that would rouse action.

But the rebels… will they take this loss on the chin? Or will they channel it into more raids, more injuries?

The thought chases me all morning, even as I wash and dress and prepare for breakfast. I meet a rather buoyant group of Selected in their lounge, all smiles and chatter and excitement for another day out ahead, and I can't bring myself to match their energy, as infectious as it is.

 _There's no point worrying now,_ I tell myself for the sixth time this morning. _What's done is done. The documents are delivered. It's in Wafiya's hands now._ But somehow I don't think the rebels will accept that as answer.

I need to push them out of my head. I need to focus on today, on perhaps the last moments of respite before a busy Christmas and New Year period. I need something to take my mind off things.

Or… someone?

Kingsley brightens at my approach, and he bows deeply. Amongst the waiting group of the Selected, prepared to head to breakfast, he looks in crisp shape, suit starched and cufflinks gleaming.

Louder than I should, I say, "I would like that kiss now, Kingsley."

Curiosity turns to surprise. He slides an arm through mine and struts away from the boys towards a side room. "Of course. Anything for you, Your Highness."

In privacy, I take my arm back. Kingsley rounds on me, eyebrow raised.

"I have to admit, your tenacity is quite scary. When you want something, you'll announce it to everyone."

"Is that bad?" I ask timidly. Honestly, I only called out like that to give the boys something not-so-happy to talk about.

"Not at all," he says, and in one fell swoop takes me in his arms. "In fact, I find it rather irresistible."

Surprisingly his hold is gentle on my waist, even with the "oh!" I yelp in surprise. Then he's pulled me into a soft embrace, irresistible scent and dazzling smile, and his lips are on mine. A kiss for the ages. I melt instantly and wrap my arms around his shoulders, pulling myself closer so that only paper fits between us. It's perfect. Just the thing to help me forget.

But as soon as it starts, as the softness of his lips caresses my own does Kingsley pull back, leaving me dazed and hungry for more.

"Now, now," he teases. "I can't let you have all of me at once."

"Oh, but why not?" I say, and then feel rather scandalous for such words.

He laughs, rich and honeyed, and slips his grip from me, and it breathes cool air where his warm hands held firm.

"So you have something to look forward to next time."

He winks. Oh, darn him and his charm. I huff.

"Okay." I pause for three seconds. "It's next time."

"Hah! Wily princess." He presses two fingers to his lips. "You'll have to try harder than that—"

"Ahem."

I whirl. Sheng stands to stoic attention at the door.

"The call came. We're going to breakfast now."

Kingsley glares at him and brushes passed through the doorway. "Her Highness and I were just finished kissing, anyway."

A blush argues its way up my cheeks. _Finished kissing._ Anyone could've left it at _finished,_ but I know Kingsley added that last part to jab at Sheng's ego. Sheng, to his credit, narrows his eyes at him as he passes, the only sign the words rattled him. Then he reaches an arm out to me.

"I'll escort you."

I take his arm, embarrassed and still a little wobbly on the knees. It was only yesterday when he escorted me through the airport, but somehow now I feel caught in headlights.

"So you did kiss?" he murmurs quietly as we join the rest of the Selected on their way to the dining hall.

Shocked at his brazenness, I reply, "Yes."

"Did you…" he sounds pained, "did you enjoy it?"

I consider lying for a moment, but what good what that do? I'm not trying to spare his feelings. "Yes, I enjoyed it."

He pauses in the hallway and turns to me. Intensity burns in his eyes. "I would like to kiss you too, if that is okay with you."

I baulk. "Here? Now?"

"Yes. If… If Kingsley is allowed to, then I think I am allowed to ask."

I'd better not tell him about Elliot yesterday. "I mean… not now, when we're about to go to breakfast."

"A quick kiss, then."

"In front of all these people? Sheng—"

"If Soren—" He takes a deep breath. "If Soren can be caught kissing you on camera, then I would like to be seen kissing you, too. To show you that I'm not afraid of who might see."

My hands clasp together, the fingers restlessly knocking against each other. Don't get me wrong. Kisses with Sheng ranked with one of my top favourite activities – up there with playing with Tay, hockey, and trying on dresses. Then the break up happened and he plummeted into my least favourite things, including meeting rebels, seeing Tay cry, and foot massages (it's just weird having a stranger touch your feet, okay?). I imagine one kiss with him will shoot him up into the Best Things Ever list again. I nearly kissed him at the chocolate festival; the memory sends my heart racing.

But to accept a kiss – a real kiss, _in front of_ other people – is to accept that my feelings for him remain the same. Unchanged. Grown, even, in our separation.

 _I'm doing this for Grand Mah,_ I remember. I'm playing this part to keep her medical bills paid. But this feels different. This feels like Sheng was on the cusp of the group, and one kiss from me means he belongs.

Do I want him to belong?

The group are nearly at the doors. Stewards open them into the modest state dining room, chairs and tables already arranged for breakfast. Some of the Selected have looked back at us in ponder.

"Gail," Sheng says in a low rumble that trills alone my spine.

I focus on him. With a kiss, I seal his place here. As my companion, as a Selected. In my heart.

I stand on tiptoes, not giving Sheng a chance to prepare. My lips meet his, and it fireworks nostalgia and familiar longing through my bones. These lips were once mine. They still are. Sheng doesn't hesitate to move in closer, to deepen our kiss, to leave his strong, protective hands on my waist with a touch that makes me lose my mind. But I pull back. My breath comes out in short, shallow puffs.

"There," I choke out, throat parched of words. "Now come to breakfast."

Blinking the haze away, Sheng composes his breathing before following me through the doors. I don't fail to notice how _all_ of the Selected watch him as he takes his seat last, expressions a mixture, and I find my place at the head table. No doubt when the toasts and jams and cereals and hash browns are served, he'll get volleyed with questions.

"You're not playing around, are you?" Roy mutters to me, waggling his eyebrows.

"Shush," I say to him, red-faced.

Roy chuckles. "It's funny, isn't it? You and Sir Mah. He only lived downstairs from you these last few years."

"Yes. Ironic."

"If you'd have bothered to talk to him more whenever you went to walk Unicorn, perhaps you'd have saved yourself the trouble of a Selection."

I bite back the retort that flames my throat. Yes, if only Sheng hadn't been so stubborn. If only Sheng had seen himself as worthy from the start. _If only, if only, if only._

A few seats away, Wafiya stands up. "Thank you all for joining us for breakfast this morning. I hope your evenings were pleasant. Nothing much more to say other than enjoy the fine food prepared for us—"

The double doors bang open, starling me enough I drop my fork. Kenley Plantagenet hustles inside with distressed brows. A magazine lays clasped in her grip.

"Apologies for the loud interruption, but I didn't want to delay—" Her gaze hones in on Ansel on one table, and then Jeremiah on another. "I have disturbing news regarding these two boys that Her Highness ought to hear."

Suddenly my heart is in my throat. _Oh no._ My mind scrambles. _Was I not the only one who heard their argument? Did Ben go to the tabloids?_ Questions battle for dominance in my head as I throw myself into standing position.

"I-I'm sure this can wait."

"It cannot, I'm afraid. I have here a copy of this morning's _Lay In in Illéa."_ She brandishes the magazine high before marching over to me. "Your Highness, I'm so sorry."

She lays the magazine on the table.

 _EXCLUSIVE STORY! SELECTED ANSEL AND JEREMIAH ARE SECRET LOVERS!_ reads the title in bold.

Recalling the blaze of their argument, I wouldn't for a second believe it.

If it weren't for the front page photo of them, kissing.

* * *

 **A/N:** Oop. Not exactly the best way to find something out, but hey ho. Poor Gail, Ansel and Jeremiah! What will happen now that Hewlett the Harmonicas Out has been exposed? Stay tuned...

This was a difficult chapter to write, but I'm pleased with how it turned out. Plus all the drama, kissing, rebels... Hope you enjoyed this one, and let me know what you thought. I'll now be returning to my regular within-two-weeks posting schedule as I'm catching up to my drafting chapters, but as I'm still off work I may be able to post on the odd one-week instead.

Thanks for reading!

~ GWA

NTT: "They've committed an act of treason!"


	42. The Ivory House, Part 3

Ansel. Jeremiah. _Kissing._

It can't be.

But obviously it is. I'm staring at the evidence. Staring at the sudden passion that has Jeremiah holding Ansel face in his own, as they squish their lips together. It's a messy photograph, pronounced in the swell of red on Jeremiah's face or the shock that overrides Ansel's features. But it's proof.

 _That argument._ What the heck happened between then and now? They were both gone for so long yesterday afternoon that I assumed they were taking time to breath, to build the wall between them, when in reality they must've sought each other out and demolished the bricks completely.

Everyone in the room around me is too stunned to say anything. I'm hyperaware that both Ansel and Jeremiah are at their tables, on their feet. The emotions that must be running through their heads right now… I gulp, look up. Kenley withdraws her hand and then glares fiercely at the both of them.

"They've committed an act of treason!" she calls. Then, to Roy, "They broke one of the most important treaties of the Selection's contract!"

I'm still too shocked to say anything, do anything. Roy stands to look over at the magazine's cover, all the proof he needs, before he swats a hand. "Remove these gentlemen from the room, please. Have them placed separately where we can discuss this."

Guards rush forwards. Somehow the atmosphere has changed. Where once the Selected would've been afforded respect, both Ansel and Jeremiah are trussed like criminals. Arms go behind backs, bodies are dragged forcefully to the door. Ansel is yelling, screaming, but Jeremiah accepts his fate with a hollowed, faraway gaze.

"Wait! Please, this was my mistake!" yells Ansel, and at last his words get through to my brain, but too late as he's hauled from the room, Jeremiah following quietly behind.

"I'm so sorry," Kenley repeats, and for what it's worth, she does sound genuinely sorry. "I wanted you to be the first to find out."

 _In front of all these people._ My chair scrapes as I push it back. "T-Thank you. I must go to them. I need answers."

I loathe the sympathetic looks that get thrown my way by the politicians. This is just a glorified TV show to them, after all. But to me the Selected are my people, my friends, my family. I cannot bear to see them hurt and exposed this way.

Halfway down the hallway, a voice calls. "Slow down! Slow down!"

I wait until Roy catches up to me, panting. "Sheesh. Now my foot inserts hurt. Gail, come on. Let's talk about this."

"Talk? How can I?" I don't even hide the distress in my voice. "Roy, this— this is awful!"

"I know you feel betrayed—"

"I don't care about me! What about them? Their— their whole relationship has been uncovered to the entire world!" He blinks back confusion, and I sigh and say, "I don't mind that they're a thing. I don't feel hurt by this at all." _Only hurt that it ended like this._

Roy retracts his hand, but he sounds suspicious. "All right. Go talk to them."

I hurry down the hallways. Ansel is being held in one of the conference rooms. Guards, both ours and of the Ivory House, wait outside with stolid expressions, but they don't hesitate to let me pass. It's not unlike the one I was in with Elliot – a long table, several chairs, an ominous painting that hangs on the wall that depicts some long-past president leering down with obsequious eyes.

Ansel paces between the two windows, distress peaking along the contours of his taut face. I've never seen him so unhinged. His hair is a mess. Shirt untucked. Jacket discarded haphazardly on a window sill. He breathes shallowly, like at any moment he will be thrown into prison; his poor heart must be rioting to keep up.

As I close the door, he looks up at me. "Y-Your Highness—"

"It's okay," I say. It's really not, actually, but I don't know how else to comfort him. "I'm not mad."

"I-I know you're not." He sinks onto the window sill. "But my life… it's ruined. His Majesty will punish me. Punish both of us. And Jeremiah… I can't imagine what he's feeling. Have you talked to him? Is he okay? Is he upset with me?"

I've never heard Ansel say so much at once. "I came to you first." I hesitate, but decide the right course of action is to tell him the truth. "I actually overheard you, you know. In the men's bathroom on the second floor. I overheard you and Jeremiah arguing. I thought… well, I thought you weren't even talking, and then I see that magazine…"

"We weren't talking," Ansel says in a quiet voice. "I spent the whole day just… walking around, trying to cool off, trying to put him out of my head. I didn't speak to him until the evening when he found me in the library. He found me and I was sure he had come to shout at me more but… he kissed me."

I'd squee if the situation called for it. "That's the photo that was on the magazine."

"I saw it. I-I didn't know what to do. I just… stood there. Jeremiah said he wanted to see if he felt anything back."

"And… and does he?"

Ansel's lips flatten into a frustrated line. "I don't know. He mumbled to himself and then left. But it doesn't matter what he feels now. None of it does."

How confusing. I take a tentative seat next to him as Ansel buries his head in his hands.

"Now the whole country knows about me." He takes a shaky breath – I realise he's crying. "And my parents… what are they going to think?"

"Forget them," I say fiercely. "I said what I said. I'll let you stay as long as you like. Maybe not here, but we have safe houses and second homes all over the country. You can stay at one of those until this dies down."

He lets out a wretched sob and opens his fingers. The once icy blue eyes are rimmed in red.

"Thank you."

Jeremiah isn't so receptive. He cowers when the door opens, and doesn't relax when I walk into the room. All his guards are up: shoulders tensed; eyes frenzied; hands curled into fists to protect his chest, to protect his heart. He'll be doing a lot of that from now on, building walls around him to stave off the negativity that will surely follow.

"Hey," I say.

He doesn't say anything at first, and I allow him the time to read my expression. He must see the ease, the sorrow, written on my face, and his haunches sink down until it's like his whole body wants to melt into the ground and disappear.

"I messed up," he mumbles. "I… I'm so sorry."

"It's okay. I'm not mad." I take a wobbly step closer, and when he doesn't recoil, I come by his side and sit. "Just… erm, surprised."

"Yeah." He leans down. "I… I didn't think… I wasn't thinking…" He runs hands through his hair. "Ansel must hate me."

"He doesn't hate you."

"He must. I-I ruined his life. I… what was I thinking?" He suddenly laughed hysterically. "I never learn… I never learn…"

"What? What do you mean?" As far as I was aware, Jeremiah's record was spotless.

He swallows loudly. "I… had a bad past relationship. That's all I'll say."

"Oh."

"I swore to myself— I _swore_ it, that I'd never get mixed up in drama again. I can't— I can't do this to myself. And yet… here I am. Just can't help myself. As always. Now I've shit the bed and the whole country knows."

I don't know what to say to that. Instead, I go for a neutral, "I don't know what happened in your past, Jeremiah, but I do know that Ansel cares deeply for you. Please don't beat yourself up about it. If you want," I add, "you can stay in one of our safe houses—"

"No," he cuts across. "No. I just… I just want to go home."

"But— the media storm—"

"I can handle it."

He can? Jeremiah doesn't say anything else – after a moment, he doesn't have to as the door opens, and Rudy strides inside. His face is a swirling mixture of anger, disappointment, and sympathy. Jeremiah jumps up.

"Mr Rudy— I'm sorry to have let you down—"

"Don't be ridiculous. You didn't let me down. A word, Your Highness?"

That's when I realise his hard expression wasn't aimed at Jeremiah. It was aimed at me. And I know exactly why.

I follow wordlessly into the corridor. Rudy stops shortly at a painting of some president long gone, but I don't have time to find solace in their face.

"You meddled, didn't you?"

"I— I may have thought Jeremiah requited his feelings, and I may have encouraged Ansel to tell him…" Rudy's face darkens with every word I utter. "I-I mean, I didn't _force_ him to do anything. I-I didn't know it would turn out like this."

"Gail," he says, and it's rare to hear my name from his mouth with such force, "what you did was incredibly foolish and now has undermined your Selection and, worse, jeopardised the lives of these two boys. Their _lives_. Do you understand that?"

Chastened, I nod. I don't need to be told how much has changed. It was all there, written in the faces of the politicians who were present during Kenley's outburst. I wished she'd had more tact and discussed it with me privately, rather than announcing it to the entire government and Selected, but I guess she thought she was doing good in exposing them.

"I overheard them arguing yesterday," I say quietly, not daring to look up at Rudy. "I thought… well, I thought Ansel might've confessed and been rejected. Obviously not the case…"

Rudy lets out a huff that somehow sounds like a sigh.

"You should have left it," he reiterates. "The fallout from this will be… extensive. I'm surprised Roy isn't angrier than he is now, but I suppose he has experience. This happened in his own Selection as well. Ansel and Jeremiah will have to be punished—"

"What? No!" I shrill. "What will happen to them? Banishment?"

"Yes."

It hurts to think they'll be expelled from the country, and for whose sake? Mine? I don't mind them being together whatsoever. I made my peace with it already. Is it for my pride? It is already wounded from the terror lurid on Ansel's face. Hugging myself, I shake my head.

"Can't they just be let go?"

But I already know the answer.

"The whole country knows about them now, no doubt. I don't think it'll be possible for them to be let go amicably."

"He's right, Gail."

Roy and Cami come up behind me. Sadness swallows me whole at their expressions – understanding, but firm.

"He's right," Roy repeats. "This cannot go unpunished."

"But I don't _care_ about what it means for me!"

"That's not the point," he says softly. "It's that they broke an important rule of the Selection."

"So what?"

"It's in their contract." He takes a deep breath. "If we don't punish them, then our authority is undermined, and right now…" his voice fell, "right now we don't need that. We _can't_ allow it."

"Oh, so you're going to use the _Resurgence_ as an excuse for this?"

"It's more complicated than that—"

"How?"

"Gail," Cami said, cutting me off with a gentle expression. "The Resurgence are not an excuse. I promise, we're not scapegoating, but frankly these two are not above punishment for a crime. That's what this is. A crime. And in these uncertain times, we need to be firm about those who break the law, no matter how insignificant it may seem to you. Maybe…" she sighed, "maybe if one of us had caught them, and they weren't found by media, then we could let them go quietly, but this has made huge headlines."

Roy nods. "Yes. That's exactly right. You don't have to like it – we don't either, but we need to take a firm stance on this and show we are not to be walked over."

Ansel and Jeremiah weren't walking over the rules. They were exploring themselves and their feelings.

Still, I hang my head and nod as Roy and Cami go to sort the next step. That won't involve me, of course. Judging by Rudy's pained expression, I have a lot to learn. Far more than I ever thought.

* * *

It's as professional a studio as the one we have at home, the lights top quality, the recording equipment sourced from pricey suppliers, the runners and producers efficient and practiced as they flit in the hidden wings of the stage. The Ivory House doesn't make as frequent announcements as we do from the palace, so their press conference room is a modest size, with a stage flanked by multiple Illéan flagpoles overlooking a congregation of fifty seats. Today they're filled to bursting by members of the press, who thrust their microphones, video tapes and cameras in my direction as I stride to the podium. Questions volley my way, but I ignore them.

On the podium is a simple sheet of paper, bullet-pointed with a list of things I am to say. Our and the Ivory House's PR team probably scribbled this down for me. I give it a quick glance. It's a cold speech, devoid of any personal attachment as if Ansel and Jeremiah weren't close as kin to me, like all the Selected are, during my Selection.

I take a deep breath and nod perceptively at Gemima to my left. She mutters something, and silence descends on the room.

"Thank you for coming out to be here today," I say, and clench my hands at my side to steady my voice. "It's with a heavy heart that I confirm that the photo on the cover of the _Lay In in Illéa_ is not doctored, staged or false in any way. Ansel Hewlett of Sota and Jeremiah Hill of Paloma courted an illicit relationship with each other during the length of my Selection, thereby committing treason against myself, my family, and our proud nation.

"After further investigation, myself and my team have agreed that the most fitting punishment for them is banishment. From this point onwards, they are eliminated with disgrace from my Selection, and hereby sentenced to banishment from the palace grounds, the Ivory House, Angeles province and Allens province. It will be considered trespassing if they are found in any of these places."

Murmurs erupt at the words. Mostly impartial as the press are meant to be, some gobble the news with glee and others process with a mournful note of sadness that clouds their expressions.

"Ansel and Jeremiah will be allowed to return to their homes if they so desire, but they will not, however, be welcome here or in Angeles as of tomorrow. This concludes my statement regarding these events. Thank you. I will not be taking questions."

Questions bleat into the air regardless. I take a step back and make to leave, but my feet don't seem to want to move. I've left it so open-ended. There really are so many more things to say. What about their futures? What about me? Instead of leaving the stage, I find myself back at the podium with my mouth hanging open.

"One last thing I would like to add," I say quickly, before anyone who has the power can drag me off the stage. "I considered Ansel and Jeremiah close friends of mine during the Selection, no matter how little time I seemed to be giving everyone, and while it hurts knowing that they couldn't wait until after the Selection concluded to… to express themselves, I don't begrudge them following their hearts."

Am I shoving my foot in my mouth? Probably. Do I care? Nope.

"Ansel Hewlett is a man of great wit, integrity, and intelligence. It took me some time to know him, to understand him, but all the while he challenged me often on my perception of the world and of myself. He is also very good at chess, and I can only wish luck upon whoever his next unlucky opponent is. Jeremiah Hill, meanwhile, was good-natured, kind-hearted, and open-minded. He focused on the best of people and never judged on past actions. I hope for only the very best of success for both gentlemen, for it's the least of what they deserve. One bad choice in the present shouldn't define them forever in the future. I wish them happiness, whether that is with each other or not." I swallow loudly. "Okay, that is all. Thank you."

Press clamour for more, but I force myself to look straight ahead as I move off-stage and head into the back rooms and privacy of the manor. Roy comes to tell me my off-script performance was well-received on social media, but not by the palace's PR. Cami tells me I've done wonderful regardless.

Someone touches my shoulder. "Well done."

Rudy.

"You think so?" I ask him.

"Yes, I'm glad you put that addendum in there," he said, smiling. "It gives me hope."

Hope. I think we all need a little of that right now.

Shortly after my address, we begin preparations to leave. Ansel and Jeremiah's things have been removed from the common lounge, and what's left is an empty spot where life used to grow. So I think, at least. I haven't been to the Selected's quarters, or seen the Selected, since the dramatic reveal at breakfast this morning. I don't think I can stomach it, even though it would be good to nurse them a shard of that hope we all so desperately need.

Aderyn is packing by the time I return to my room. When I flop on the bed, she frowns, and for a second I think it's because I creased the bedding.

"You have a letter here. It's addressed to you."

The thick paper is folded once and sealed with wax. Very traditional. I pop it open as Aderyn folds the last of my dresses into my trunk.

Three simple words are written on the front.

 _Not good enough._

I know exactly who it's from.

* * *

 **A/N:** Greetings everyone! Decided in the end to post today; I do think the next chapter needs a heavy edit though, so it will be two weeks wait on that one. Thanks for your patience! And I hope you enjoyed this one.

So today we say goodbye to the Ivory House, and to Ansel Hewlett and Jeremiah Hill. Huge thank you to **Slytherwitch** and **tyozzie123** for them both. What fun they were to write! Ansel in particular is probably one of my favourites, simply for his aloof, cool attitude... I thought pairing him with his polar opposite, Jeremiah, would be a lot of fun. Alas, their happy ending hasn't turned out so happy... but I think they're young, and they would have plenty of time in their lives to discover and rediscover who they are.

So we return to the palace with heavy hearts, and a heavy weight on our minds... closer and closer to the elusive Elite...

Thanks for reading!

~ GWA

NTT: "I withhold a sob that wants to escape. _All that time, all those moments… wasted."_


	43. The Christmas Ball

At least there's one thing I can look forward to this next week. The Christmas Ball.

With the preparations nearly complete, it's all the remaining thirteen Selected will talk about as the days slow to a shuddering crawl. With Ansel and Jeremiah gone, there's a little hole where they'd carved their existence, and I can see it in the way the boys seem wayward without them. Ansel had a smart head on his shoulders, and Jeremiah a good heart, so the loss is felt keenly even as excitement grows.

Since Jeremiah left for home, and Ansel left for our manor house in Sota, I've seen interviewers cling to their respective parents' homes for a quick comment, but neither parties are cracking. Ansel must've told his parents he wasn't coming home, because they did peer out into the media crowds, wondering if their son was among them. Jeremiah, meanwhile, is plastered all over social media, including pictures of him hovering by the windows of his family's small mansion, but not a word of a comment yet. I don't think they'll be an interview with him for a long.

I hope they sort their lives out, one way or another.

Still, I can't help but feel glad to put it all behind me. The scrutiny in my direction the last week has been too much, even for me to handle, and that's without thinking about the rebel note left in my bedroom at the Ivory House. I've spent the last few days baking with Tay and helping him practice Korean and jujitsu in Omma's stead to keep it out of my thoughts. He's getting better with it all, especially jujitsu. Sometimes I think he'll surpass me.

 _Not good enough._

I don't know how they already knew about Wafiya's reaction to my attempt at handing her the rebel demands. I don't know how they bypassed the thick security at the Ivory House to slide me such an ominous note. I don't know how they do anything, really, but here we are. I worry that they'll send further correspondence, drive another nail in my coffin, but nothing comes, so I'm left to wait and worry some more.

The day before the ball, a knock comes at my office door. Zelda shoves her way inside, halfway through a groan, and flops into the armchair in front. "You're not busy, are you?"

"I was until you barged in. Enjoying freedom?"

"You bet. I wish I went with you to Allens, but shit, if I had to listen to one more mumble-grumble from Rudy about freakin' homework, I was going to die. My essay is shit but I really don't care anymore." She stretches her arms like a cat. "Parker and I are playing some video games later. Want to join?"

"Later? Doesn't he have dance practice?"

"Nah. That sucker is confident he's memorised all the steps. It'll be funny to watch him trip over himself during the waltz tomorrow."

Too busy to join, I scramble through my work for the day, and the next, until the evening of the ball hangs low on the horizon.

Aderyn silently but efficiently gathers my hair into any up-do and buffs the locks with shiny hairspray. Strands curl down my ears to the nape of my neck, and a tiara (pink, of course) is nestled at the crest of my forehead. To match, my ball gown is a dusky rose with a layer of chiffon, and kitten heel pumps. My make-up accentuates thick eyelashes, golden eyeshadow, and warm pink lipstick. As Aderyn works to steam-iron the last stubborn wrinkles from the dress' skirt, I notice her eyes go distractedly to her bag of tools by the foot of my bed.

"What's up?"

"Hmm? Oh, nothing much," she says.

Only until the room is completely quiet, no fiddling with fabrics or harrying with hair, do I hear a gentle buzz in her bag. Understanding dawns on me.

"Is that Rose?"

"No," she says a little too quickly to be natural. "It's nothing."

"Does she want you to come to our practices?"

At that, Aderyn lets out a slow breath, and takes a step back. "She keeps encouraging me to, yes. I have to keep telling her I'm busy. It's not a lie, so. It doesn't mean anything."

I give her _a look,_ and in return she gives me a scowl.

"Why don't you ask her out?" I say.

"I said it was nothing," she says, more forcefully, and jets the iron onto the back of my dress before aggressively smoothing the fabric down my leg. "There's absolutely nothing going on, so stop asking."

"Okay," I say, but my voice drawls. I know she knows there's something. She knows I know she knows there's something.

Finishing the last touches, Aderyn stands back to admire her work. "There." She gives me a firm nod. "You will look the part in the waltz. Do you know who your partner is yet?"

"No idea. It's going to be a surprise."

"Let's hope it's a good one," she remarks. "Some of the maids have been saying your boys have two left feet, most of them. Especially your In-N-Out boy. Couldn't hold a beat if he was held at gunpoint."

Poor Sheng. I frown. "That's not very reassuring."

"That's not in my job description."

"Gail?" A little knock follows Tay's voice. "Gail, are you ready?"

I hoist my skirts and open the door for him. Tay, in a little navy tailored suit, looks up at me with worried eyes. Omma, next to him, resplendent in a scarlet _hanbok_ beams.

"You look beautiful, peanut. Doesn't she, scamp?"

"Don't call me peanut," I say, at the same time Tay squeaks, "Yes, Omma."

Omma looks like she wants to ruffle his hair, but resists the urge when it is, for once, so neatly combed. "Roy and Cami are already there. I thought it might be nice if you two escorted each other into the ballroom. Given that this will likely be the only ball of your Selection, it might be nice to make a grand, and cute, entrance."

"I thought you were going in with Tay?" I ask.

She shakes her head. "No. I'd like to walk in alone."

The statement broods. It's not meant to be a piteous thing, but when a decade ago Appa would've walked her inside, it's a sad admission that webs a crack along the surface of my heart. But I respect her wishes and I take Tay's little hand in my own, and we march down the corridor together with Omma flanking the rear of our party.

Lilting music drifts from behind the large oak doors. Omma goes first; the attendants announce her to the crowd already present in the ballroom. I've seen the preparations under way, and now finally, I get to see the fruit of the Selected's labour. Despite Rudy's words, I can't help but look forward to whatever they've planned, even if it goes wrong. No matter what happens, this will be one of the most memorable balls for years to come.

"Ready?" I ask Tay.

He squeezes my fingers. "No."

"It's all right," I say, squeezing back. "Once we get announced, we'll head down the stairs, and then you can be with Omma and Regan the rest of the night. I think June will be there, too. Won't that be nice to see her?"

His nose wrinkles, and darn it, I giggle. Kids are so delightfully blunt.

"Please don't let go of my hand, Gail."

"I won't."

I nod to the attendants. They push open the doors onto the lip of the balcony. Immediately I'm swamped with the decorations, suddenly more bright and vivid under the warm glow of the chandeliers. The ballroom glitters gold and red. Tinsel festoons every frieze, crimson wreathes boast a fresh, earthy smell, and the centrepiece at the very back of the hall is the giant Christmas tree ice sculpture, so tall it almost touches the ceiling. It's embedded in a spacious crate, filled with ice. Mist undulates out onto the floor, kissing the atmosphere with an ethereal, almost otherworldly glow.

Dancing is already underway. Aristocrats, politicians, celebrities, and friends swing around the dance floor, the edges of which are marked handily by near-invisible tape. Around them are the circular tables for the dinner, all of which are adorned with bouquets of holly and poinsettia, red candles and twinkling tea lights, and origami napkins folded into trees and swans. The air is heavy with cinnamon and vanilla.

"Announcing the attendance of Her Royal Highness, Princess Gail Su-Jin Schreave, and His Royal Highness, Prince Taeyang Merrick Schreave!"

At this, the orchestra just below us lowers the volume of their music respectably, and the members of the congregation bow or curtsy. I lead Tay down the stairs one at a time, careful not to trip on the chiffon, and hold my head high, admiring the Selected's work from all angles. At the bottom, Regan gives a little wave, and Omma goes to take Tay's hand, but, in an instant, Kingsley is there, resplendent in a white tuxedo, and Omma stills.

"Your Majesty, Your Highnesses, Sir Regan," he says through a grin, but unlike his usual self, it's slightly strained. "I do apologise for the interruption, but I wondered if I may borrow Prince Tay for a moment?"

"Tay?" I ask. "What do you want with Tay?"

"His… ah, expert advice."

Tay is bewildered, but offers his hand for Kingsley to take, and off they go, Kingsley bending down to mutter what can only be described as a frantic plea, judging by the panicked expression on his face.

"What was that about?" I ask.

Omma's lips curl. "I'm not sure, but I'm sure Tay will be okay."

Regan nods. "He likes Kingsley, but I'll keep an eye on him." He goes to follow.

Weird, but I decide not to question it as Roy and Cami sidle up to us. Suited in a black tuxedo, white shirt and dark green bow tie, Roy must've swapped his cane for inserts tonight as it's nowhere to be found, and Cami turns heads with a slim green gown and high-armed gloves. There's an amused expression on both of their faces, like they both told a joke.

"What do you think, Gail?" asks Cami. "I don't think they've done a bad job, myself."

"It's pretty good."

"I, for one, am looking forward to when that monstrous tree sculpture melts." Roy wiggles his eyebrows. "We've been informed that there is a… _surprise_ for you within, Gail."

"Ooo!" I clap my hands. "What is it? I love surprises!"

Cami covers her mouth – it's the least discreet way to hide her giggle ever. "I don't think you'll like this one, even if it comes from the heart."

They move away, giggling to themselves as head towards the back table, where some of Roy's old Selected gather. Suddenly the ice sculpture has lost its lustre.

I find Zelda and Parker teetering by the window as they look out onto the manicured lawns. Parker is practicing his steps again – Zelda's _trip over himself_ comment haunts me as I watch him stumble – and Zelda is attempting to guide him. A wine glass jostles in her hand.

"Your poor maid," Zelda says, as Parker's foot catches his shin and he knocks into the window sill, blushing furiously.

"M-My maid will have a great time," he insists. "I won't mess it up during the actual dance. Don't worry. I'll get it. I will."

Only then do I take in their appearances. They seemed to have matched unintentionally – Parker in a black suit with red tie and waistcoat, Zelda in a dark red gown with holly embroidery. Particularly girlier than I'm used to seeing her. Zelda's hair is glossy and shiny as it curls at the nape of her neck, and even Parker's wild blond curls are reined in, combed to one side.

"That's what I like to hear!" I say, calling their attention to me. "Positivity!"

Zelda scoffs. "You won't be saying that when he crashes into you and Kingsley."

"Oh, me and Kingsley, huh?"

Parker grumbles. "H-He won the competition. Obviously."

"Salty," says Zelda.

"Of course! A-All he had to do was take a step across the floor and flourish his hands. Romilda went gaga for him!"

"He stole my brother away earlier," I say, frowning. "Any idea why?"

But Parker rolls his eyes. "Big surprise, he's the Child Catcher from Chitty-Chitty-Bang-Bang…"

"Apparently Levi and Valerian were in hot pursuit of your hand, Gail," Zelda says, taking a sip of her wine. "Parker says they all had some weird contest in the Men's Parlour the other day to see how long they could stand upright with their arms out for the longest."

Strange. I smile at Parker. "Nonetheless, I'm looking forward to the dance and the rest of the festivities."

"I'm looking forward to the food," says Zelda.

"Me too." Parker beams a wide smile at her. "A-Are you, erm, sitting with your dads?"

"Not if I can help it. Why?"

"Want a seat next to me?"

She blanches. "Oh. Well. That's nice of you."

"Is that a no?" Hurriedly he adds, "I-I mean, totally get it if you say no. You don't have to sit next to me. I like your company. But you're independent. You don't need to follow what I say just because I'm a, er, guy. I support women being autonomous and free to choose whatever they want to do—"

"Christ, Parker, it was just unexpected is all." She cackles a little louder, fuelled by the wine. "Yeah, sure. At least you'll make me laugh when you spill something or some shit."

He goes as red as his tie. "Oh, okay, cool! Yes. That's very nice. You're welcome – er, I mean, thank you."

When Parker goes, I take Zelda's arm. "Erm… what was that?"

"What was what?"

"Why is he making such a big deal of asking you to sit next to him?"

"Because it's Parker, and he makes a big deal out of everything?" She extracts her arm and stares at me with a heavy gaze. "Are you implying what I think you're implying?"

"No! Well… yes. I guess I was."

"That's the exact opposite of _no."_ She scowls. "Chill, Gail. I get why'd you'd be suspicious, and Parker's a huge dumbass, but there's nothing happening between us."

"Okay."

But she leaves, and I sense I've hurt her feelings. I don't mean to imply she'd deliberately deceive me, but I've already been torn apart when two of my Selected were caught together. I can't have that happen with my best friend, too.

After some polite small talk with some celebrities and politicians, the music undergoes a sombre change. Instead of jaunty Christmas tunes, now plays the quiet waltzes, the old classics, and the gentle melodies shared between lovers. This is a signal. The dance will be soon. Kingsley, however, is nowhere to be found, but he'd better show up or else I'll miss my cue.

I watch the partners change. JJ and Lilly, who were on the dance floor, bow and curtsy with huge grins on their faces. As JJ wanders off, Lilly spots me and rushes over with a radiantly sweet smile. Dressed in white, her gown adorned with flowers, she looks like she's about to get married. I grin at her.

" _You look lovely today,"_ I sign.

" _So do you,"_ she replies. " _Your brother's old Selected are here. I thought I should steal you to say hello to them."_

"Ooooh, okay!"

I follow Lilly to one of the tables further back. Cami is seated amongst two other people: Auntie Maeve, in a green pantsuit with dark curly hair and dark skin; and Auntie Luna, her dark brown hair pulled into a sheer bun and her brown skin shimmering with powder. They all smile at my approach.

"Hello!" I greet cheerily as I sign.

"Darn tootin', look how much you've grown!" Maeve scoops me up into a hug – she's _massively_ tall, like a giant, and my heels fly right off the floor. "I remember when you were a little tyke during Roy's Selection! Can't believe you're holding your own now!"

"Put her down, Maeve," Luna chides, swatting a worried hand. Maeve she pronounces _my-eve._ "You'll crush her."

Maeve pops me back onto the ground, laughing. "Nah. Gail's made of stronger stuff. Isn't that right?"

She giggles when I nod my head. "Where's Auntie Ambrosia?" I ask.

"In Eastern Europe. Homeless children during the Christmas period, you see." Cami beams at her friends. "Just us four for the evening. It'll be nice to get into some shenanigans again."

"Anyone for a tantalising game of Snap?" asks Maeve, a glint in her eye.

Cami and Luna groan. When Cami translates, Lilly makes a gesture that is too rude to repeat.

"How's your Selection going, Gail?" Luna asks, as Maeve deals the cards to them. "You have quite a few lookers in your group."

"Aren't you married?" asks Maeve.

"I still have eyes," she retorts. The ring on her left hand catches the light. "Any that you're favouring?"

"I'm not sure," I admit, as the round starts and Cami, Lilly, Maeve and Luna toss their cards on the piles. "Any advice?"

"SNAP!" Maeve roars, then cackles as she scoops the cards into her deck. "Ahem, I mean, advice. Yes. Er. Follow your heart."

Lilly signs, " _Generic, but true. I'd advise you to trust your instincts. Trust your head and heart, because they know best."_

"Agreed," says Luna. She smiles sadly. "Sometimes it might not work out for the best, either, but don't let it get you down. You have the easier side of the job, being the Selector, rather than the Selected."

Cami opens her mouth, but a cross expression flashes across her face. "Maeve, are you stealing from Lilly's deck?"

"What? No. Of coooourse not."

She slides her hand off Lilly's deck rather unperceptively.

Cami glares at her teasingly before she faces me. "I'm going to level with you and say that sometimes, people can be completely, totally oblivious. Especially boys. If you want something, chase it. Don't mess around playing hard to get or anything. Be frank with your feelings."

"And she won, so she has to be right," says Maeve, her focus entirely on the pile of cards. She places her next card down, and Lilly slams her hand on it, calling the pile for her own. Maeve grumbles. "See? No messing around. Perfect analogy."

"Speaking of no messing around, Lilly," says Luna, eyebrows waggling. "Who's this new man I heard you've taken a liking to?"

After Cami translates, Lilly goes bright red. She hurries signs, and her fingers flap awkwardly when clenched around her cards. " _Nothing, no one, doesn't matter."_ She can't look me in the eye as she does, so I suspect she doesn't want to talk to me about it. The information is first for her close friends. She'll tell me when she wants.

I leave them to their card game when Maeve and Lilly start to get a little too competitive – that is, when Maeve's stentorian voice booms over the orchestra, and Lilly's overenthusiastic hands beat the table like a drum. The ball is in full swing. Roy and Omma are doing the chicken dance on the dance floor and zealously flapping their arms, Rudy and Captain Durante are in the corner, resplendent in tailored suits, point things out to little June and snickering as she giggles, and Avian and Sheng are by the tables going through the waltz steps together, entirely fixated on the patterns of their feet. I drift towards them, curious to see how obsessively they're approaching the waltz.

"Highness," greets Avian, not bothering to look up from his feet. "Promise we won't bang into you on the floor. Well, _I_ can promise…"

"I'm trying," Sheng growls.

Then Sheng twists his legs and nearly falls over. I lift a hand to my mouth to conceal my giggle, but Sheng hears it and grumbles audibly. Avian bursts out laughing.

"Holy shit, your poor maid."

"Shut up, Avian."

"This beat's a little slow though," Avian adds, nodding his head towards the orchestra. "Don't suppose they'll be playing anything a little more… er, jaunty soon, Highness?"

I frown. "It's traditional to have the orchestra play the Christmas songs. Did you have something else in mind?"

Delighted by my question, he edges closer, and I can smell the thick cologne on him over the misty radiance of the ice sculpture. "Just saying, when I've been bored – which totally isn't very often, by the way, ahem – I've been remixing some songs like I used to do for my club when I DJed. Got one really sick Christmas one that's finished that would work really well if I played it here."

"Hmm." I glance over the orchestra – he's right, it is dreadfully dull year in and out to play the same songs. And given that this is the only year of my Selection, it seems only fitting that one of my Selected have a chance at the musical spotlight. I nod. "Okay. If you can find the sound manager, I give you permission to play your song _after_ the waltz."

Avian doffs his head. "You won't regret it. It's going to be lit."

Sheng scoffs. " _Lit_ erally unbearable, you mean?"

"Shut up, Sheng."

"Your Highness."

Silas' voice pronounces above the din, and I turn to him. Chest puffed and his curly hair tamed with a ribbon, he offers a hand to me. "I was hoping I could have a dance with you _before_ Avian messes with the mood."

"Hey. I will be _enhancing_ the mood, thank you."

My eyes go to Sheng. He isn't looking at me anymore, eyes back to boring holes in his feet, but the way he's all tensed up, more than before, is a solid indication that Silas' proclamation rattles him. Sheng hasn't danced with me at all yet. Maybe he wanted to be the first. Maybe he wanted to be the only one.

Still, I can't say no. I don't want to, either. I take Silas' arm and he leads me to the floor, where thankfully Roy and Omma have run out of breath from squawking too hard. Besides two other couples, the floor is mostly ours.

The music begins, and off we go. Silas is a little awkward on his feet; I can tell he hasn't danced a day in his life, but there are no formal steps to this piece. We move and sway as our bodies dictate. My left hand clams in his right, and I force my other on his shoulder not too squeeze too hard for fear of cutting off his circulation.

"You've been kind of distant lately," he says quietly. "Ansel and Jeremiah's thing get to you?"

"It did," I concede, "but maybe not as bad as you think."

He catches my meaning by the way his chin dips. "I see."

"I don't know. I think I'm just a little overwhelmed by everything right now."

"Don't blame you. Organising this ball was a handful and a half." He chuckles. "Don't suppose anyone's spoilt your surprise, have they?"

"Will you tell me? My brother has been relentlessly giggly every time he sees me."

But Silas smirks. "Nope. You'll find out during the waltz."

" _During_ the waltz?" I pout. "Meanie."

"Hahah." My comment obviously has less than zero effect on him. "Just let it be known that it wasn't my idea in the slightest. In fact, I voted against it."

"That doesn't give me much hope. Who can I blame for whatever it is if not you?"

"Kingsley, Parker, Levi, Ben and Elliot," he retorts. "Especially Kingsley." He shakes his head, more muttering to himself than me. " _Festive red…_ psssh…"

I smile as we continue to prowl the floor. Soon we're the only couple left, and I'm suddenly aware at how close I am to Silas' body; there's about a plank's worth of space between us. Silas seems in no rush to close it, even though I find myself wanting to fall into his chest, and stunned by the sudden urge, I let out a small cough and focus on the dance.

"I hope tonight can take you off your worries, at least," he says at last, when the song is nearing its end. "And… be careful. Don't work yourself into exhaustion."

I smile, grateful for the encouragement, and curtsy to his bow. When we come off the floor, Rudy finds my arm.

"The waltz is to begin in two songs," he says. "All the gentlemen and ladies are present except Kingsley and Max. Have you seen them? I've been looking everywhere."

Kingsley _and_ Max? What an unlikely pair. With a quick browse I realise neither Tay nor Regan are back either. Where _are_ they? With a shake of my head, Rudy lets out an annoyed grunt and dips away to interrogate the rest of the Selected. By their expressions none of them seem to know either. Without Kingsley, I won't have a partner for the dance, and we'll be more than a pair down if I steal one of the other boys.

A hand catches my arm. JJ, blond hair tied into a wolf's tail, and the rest of him cutting an impressive figure in a three-piece grey suit, nods his head towards the servant's entrance in the dark recess of the room.

"Hello, sorry to grab you like this, but I've found Sir Obasanjo and Sir Wellington."

"Where are they?"

"I'll take you."

We head down the servant's corridors. Once the doors close, the sounds of the ball mute instantly, and I can hear my senses ringing. Hoisting my skirts, I tiptoe down the stairs to the bustling kitchen corridors, where chefs, waiters and waitresses buff the last of the glass goblets, or serve the final scoop of butternut squash soup into terrines, or shake glistening frying pans that bubble with red wine sauce. Scents of all kinds attack me when we head into the kitchen proper, through sugared countertops and sparking stoves, and go right to the back.

Kingsley is at a worktable with his sleeves rolled up. Flour coats his apron and flecks stray onto his suit, but he works tirelessly to knead a wodge of dough into shape.

"Bake, little man, bake!" he roars.

I angle my head; behind him, Tay stands on a stool with his little _Star Baker_ apron and his sleeves as rolled up. He mixes a paste in a huge bowl. Right next to him, Regan and Max are cutting cherries at a breakneck pace. I've never seen Max concentrate so hard on something.

"Cut faster!" Tay orders.

"Yes, chef!" Regan and Max chorus back.

Kingsley slams the dough onto the countertop. "Pathetic! Answer your head chef with gusto!"

" _Yes, chef!"_ bellow Regan and Max.

"Better," Kingsley says, scoffing. "We have a hundred tarts to make. No time for dawdling!"

At my side, JJ lets out a little snort-laugh. All eyes turn to face us. Kingsley's expression is absolutely priceless; like I've caught him in an intimate act rather than a furious baking tirade.

"Y-Your Highness—" he splutters.

"Gail!" Tay calls. "Come help with the tarts!"

" _Why_ are you making tarts—?" It hits me as soon as the words leave my mouth. Of course. Rudy said they hadn't left enough money for a dessert chef. They've forgotten to make desserts for the ball.

"I-It's very simple, really—" Kingsley begins, and I almost wish I could hear the excuse he'd come up with.

"Less talking," Tay chides, "more baking!"

"Yes, chef!" Kingsley, Regan and Max chant.

"I can't help, Tay," I say, frowning. "I have the waltz coming up, and so do Kingsley and Max."

Distress flashes in Tay's eyes. "But we'll never make enough tarts in time!"

"Looks like you gents could use another hand?" JJ says, rolling up his sleeves. He joins Max and Regan cutting cherries.

"Sorry, Highness, but this is more im—… im—… _important_ than the dance," Kingsley forces out, and for the first time ever I hear a tone of regret in his voice. "If we don't get these tarts baked and out by the time dessert comes around, my Christmas ball will be a disaster!"

Max rolls his eyes, and I have to suppress a giggle. I give him an especially apologetic look which he returns, shrugging, and nods his chin at Tay. I'm glad they're doing this with him.

"You're in good hands, Tay," I pipe. "I trust you'll have these done."

"We will!" Tay pipes without looking up from the counter.

I don't know how they will, but by the determination in Tay's voice, I believe it.

Back in the ballroom, I find Rudy and divulge the details of the situation. Rudy lets out a dark chuckle. "So that's where they're at… I suppose that's understandable then. You'll need a new partner, and two more people will need to replace the Selected."

"You could dance," I suggest. "Romilda, too."

To my surprise, he lights up. "No one's ever asked me before to dance in the waltz. What a great idea!" He grins, rubs his hands together. "Romilda will be thrilled! I should find her quickly…"

"Who will be my partner then?"

"Levi Song," Rudy supplies. "Close one between him and Valerian, but I think Levi has the edge, given he's, you know, a pop-star."

Levi. It's not hard to find him. His suit is the only one that isn't a drab colour; instead a deep, dark red pinstripe suit and a holly corsage. Nerves whistle in my ears. He's a good dancer, no doubt. I hope he can keep up with my steps for the waltz.

"So we'll replace Kingsley and Max with you and Romilda."

Rudy nods. "We have one song to prepare. One!"

The boys and I gather around the dance floor in preparation, trading whispers and excitement like baseball cards. Levi eventually saunters up to me with the biggest grin on his face; obviously becoming my new partner for the dance has brightened his already illuminous spirit. He tips his head at me in greeting, and I give him a teensy-weensy curtsy.

"I'm so glad I came second," he says, beaming. "It's such an honour to dance with you."

"Me too," I pipe. "Er, well, not dance with myself. Dance with you. Me, dance with you."

He lets out one bark of a laugh. "If I were you I'd be thrilled to dance with yourself too."

The couples dance and spin on the floor, and it gradually comes to an end. They bow and curtsy, and retreat off the floor. The orchestra falls quiet, and all the sounds of clacking heels and tinkling flutes ring out like a pleasant bell. Even that falls quiet when Roy and Cami go to stand in front of the ice Christmas tree, still teetering on the edge of a fit of giggles, and call for an announcement.

"Thank you so much all for coming today," Roy pronounces, grinning broadly. "I'm so thrilled you could join us for a very special Christmas ball. Today we are joined by the gentlemen of my sister, Princess Gail's, Selection. I can tell you, it's been a trip and a half having them here with us, and I can tell by how… interesting today has been," he struggles to hold in a laugh, "that the Selected have come together to organise this unique occasion. So a huge thank you to them all, if you'll join me in applause?"

Everyone claps. On the other side of the floor, Avian is flourishing his hands and bowing. Sheng rolls his eyes.

"Later on we will begin the banquet. I am truly looking forward to this one today, especially dessert." He winks in my direction. "For now, however," he raises an arm, "please clear some space for our annual Christmas waltz, led by Princess Gail and her Selected Levi Song, and enjoy."

"Your Highness?" Levi offers his arm.

"Sir Song." I take his arm.

Onto the dance floor we go.

Couples take their place. The Selected take the arms of their maids and ready positions. Rudy is muttering to a bouncy Romilda about arm height. There's another guard here, too, and distantly I think it must be to replace yet another lost Selected, but I don't have time to think about whom. Besides us, Elliot takes deep breaths as he stares at his feet. To our left, Valerian rolls his shoulders, and behind, Yamato waits with his maid, back stiff but poised. To my great surprise, Levi gives him a wink and a thumbs up, and Yamato goes ripe red in the face.

The music begins. So too does our initial curtsy and bow, before Levi embraces me, and I embrace him, and we're whirling along the dance floor with grins on our faces. The cameras will be watching closely; this one will be recorded for the Report.

"What's up with you and Yamato?" I ask him in a hushed voice.

He lets out a chuckle. "Oh, Yams, Yams, Yams. He's a big L-Heartie, did you know?"

Yamato? A fan of… anything? "I… never would've guessed…"

"I think he's a stan, actually," he whispers, eyes twinkling. "Though he'd never admit it. You know it was me that helped him with your date, right?"

I cock my head and then immediately right it when I remember I'm supposed to be dancing. "In what way?"

"I've been coaching him," he says, "to be more sociable in the Selection. After that messy fiasco with Elliot…" He makes what must be as close to a grimace as Levi will ever get. "I thought he might need some help."

Huh. No wonder Yamato was so entirely… different, during our date the week. Don't get me wrong, I liked Yamato during that date – more than I should – but it makes sense that he didn't suddenly become Mr Suave and Handsome by his own means. "You did a good job."

He winks. "Of course."

After Levi dips me, longingly and slowly, and brings me back to standing, my breath catches in my throat.

"He's competition though," I warn. "Doesn't that scare you? Helping a competitor?"

"Not at all," he says. "Always happy to help an L-Heartie."

He spins me, and I tuck into his chest. Only for a second, barely time for an afterthought, yet all I smell is his fresh cologne, prickling pleasantly up my spine. We're in for the last part of the dance now. Colours are merging around me as dresses and suits coalesce as we step faster and faster.

"He might be able to win your heart better than I could."

I raise an eyebrow. "That's not very confident of you."

"Oh, no, I'm sure I could win you, Your Highness." He sticks out his tongue. "But I can't date you, so it doesn't matter."

"Erm," I say, laughing awkwardly under my breath. "What do you mean by that? Of course you can date me. You're in my Selection."

"Ah, sorry, sorry, I should've clarified." He subtly shakes his head like he was mistaken about the weather. "It's in my contract. I cannot date."

My feet become led. I stumble, nearly trip, and propelled by the momentum, Levi falls along with me. I recover best I can and drag him back up, but my heart has stopped.

"What? What on earth do you mean _in your contract?"_

Levi blinks. In that moment alone, I think that I must've misunderstood, or misheard, and now I've made a fool of myself in front of the ball and the cameras. But Levi smiles through it.

"I can't date you while I'm in the band."

It stuns me to utter silence for a second, two. Someone bumps into my side – Sheng, who stares with a hard, confused expression. I ignore him.

"You… you can't…" The music pitches in and out of my attention. I'm falling behind the steps. "Your contract says you can't date me?"

"That's right. It's not personal. I can't date anyone."

So this whole Selection has gone by, and Levi cannot actually date me?

"So then why are you here?" I restrain the urge to yell.

Levi holds his hands up. "It's a once in a lifetime opportunity—"

"For me to find a date! A partner!" I shrill, coming to a complete halt. The music is still playing, and everyone is watching, but my focus is only on the pop-star in front of me. "If you can't even date me, then you're here for no reason—!"

"And now for the spectacle!" Oblivious to my troubles, Roy calls from the dais. "A gift, from the gentlemen of the Selection to Princess Gail!

With the worst timing ever, two people in hazmat suits emerge from around the ice sculpture tree with, and I kid you not, giant flamethrowers.

In one motion they activate them, bursting with lambent flame that glows off the walls. It devours the ice sculpture's base, the ice melts—

A brass statue reveals itself to a wealth of surprised laughter, applause, and gawked stares. My jaw drops. It's a statue of _me_. My hair fans out like the model of a perfume commercial, my ball gown billows with wind-swept wrinkles, and my arms go out in greeting, in a hugging gesture. As the flamethrower men stop, I can see Roy and Cami doubling over with laughter behind a pillar where they don't think anyone can see.

I don't know if it's the horrific likeness of me, blown twice my size, or Levi's cold revelation that triggers the tears in my eyes. The waltz is supposed to continue, but bodies crash into my sides.

"Your Highness," Levi says, bringing my gaze back to him, "it's not like that. I _am_ here for a reason. If we were compatible, if I _really_ liked you, I'd… I'd leave the band."

"Leave the—? Are you out of your mind? You love LH2!"

"I-I do," he says. His smile dips, edging closer and closer to a frown. "But I'd leave for you."

"And then what? You— you get stuck here in the palace. You won't be allowed a singing career. It wouldn't work. Then you grow resentful of me."

"I wouldn't—"

"You'll be cooped up here when your heart is out _there."_ I point to the window. "Making people happy. Making _yourself_ happy."

I turn away to get that statue out of my face, to get Levi's words away, but he follows and hits another moving couple, shaking his head. "No, no, no. Your Highness, please. I could be happy with you."

"And I _wouldn't_ be happy knowing you gave it up for me. That's not what I want."

"It's not like that." He takes my hand, kneads it beneath the pads of his fingers. "I-I may not have taken the Selection seriously because of my contract until now, but I—"

I snatch my hand back. "And you won't. Because you're leaving."

His eyes widen. For once, he has nothing to say. Gasps ripple from the onlookers as more tears gather in my eyelids. _Don't cry, Gail. Don't._ But I can't help it. Mascara blurs in my vision as they fall down my cheek.

"I'm eliminating you from my Selection. Go back to your band, and forget about me."

Before he can try to win me back, I spin on my heel and march out of the ballroom. Tears that had clung to my eyelashes in some desperate attempt to save face now fall like raindrops. Betrayal courses through me. All those moments together, as small as they were, and for nothing. For him to be under some contract this whole time. He lied to me, and the revelation stings more than the prick of a needle.

What's worse? I was talking from the heart when I said those words.

 _You'll be cooped up here when your heart is out there. Making people happy. Making yourself happy._

I aimed them at Levi like a precise bullet, when in reality I said them more to myself.

I approach the end of the corridor. Stricken, I flop on the windowsill to cry quietly to myself. Naomi is wisely staying back. No one else is here. No one else can dry my tears. I wipe my palm across my face to discourage any more mascara smudges, but it doesn't help, only streaks them across my cheeks.

I withhold a sob that wants to escape me. _All that time, all those moments… wasted._

That's when I hear a little moan.

Distinctly male. Distinctly heated. Coming from one of the utility closets to my left.

Rising up, I approach the cupboard door. My vision may be blurry but my hearing is fine. Fine enough for me to recognise the sound, for me to make out the muffled conversation.

"— shouldn't be doing this… the dance will be over by now."

Parker.

"Just one more, all right?"

 _Zelda._

I reach out. Open the door.

The internal closet houses three shelves and several brooms for cleaners. Between the buckets and basins and cloths and mops, Zelda straddles Parker's lap on a kickstool. Her hands are on his chest. Her mouth is on his. They're kissing so deeply that I see the way Zelda's lips peel from his when they notice me. She leaves a stain on his mouth.

"Shit—" Zelda leaps off him at once, white as a ghost. "I-I swear, this isn't what it looks like—"

"P-P-Princess," Parker immediately launches off the stool, cheeks flushed, "s-s-she's right—"

But I can't hear them. All I hear is the roaring rage that churns in my chest. All I hear is my blood boiling to point.

" _How could you?"_ I yell. " _How could you do this to me?"_

"Wait, wait, Gail," Zelda says, voice pitching, "it's a misunderstanding—"

"I'm not stupid! I can see what you were doing!" Fresh tears burst from my eyes as I turn to Parker. "You're _eliminated! Get out of my sight!"_

"No, hold on—" Zelda goes to reach for me but I slap her away.

" _Get away from me!"_ I scream.

This draws Naomi close, but I turn and run. I keep running, even in my exhausted, emotional state, even as my leaden feet threaten to buckle beneath me. I run until I'm safely in my room with the door tightly shut and the lights low. Moonlight freckles the carpet through the drapes.

I trip on my way to my bed. Knees sore, I sit up, tears dribbling down my cheeks, only to notice something beneath the volumes of fabric, caught on the heel of my shoe. A note.

 _3am, at the attached address. Come alone._

 _Don't be late._

 _The Voice._

* * *

 **A/N:** Well, that was rather dramatique, but extremely fun to write. Poor Gail! Hope you enjoyed the chapter.

So we have two casualties of today's chapter. Unfortunately we must say goodbye to Levi Song and Parker Zaleski, by the lovely **OctaviaWithStarsForEyes** and **GingersnapBeat** respectively. When I say I loved both of these boys I genuinely mean it; they were both hilarious to write in their own way. Alas, not to be... and we shall see the consequences of Parker's ungracious exit next time...

As a wee announcement, I've started writing a Harry Potter SYOC called **A Conspiracy of Ravens**! It follows sixth year Rose Weasley as she plays host to a group of foreign exchange students that come to Hogwarts, though not all is well in the wizarding world... All the spots are reserved though it is possible I may open them up again, but either way, I hope you'll give it a read! There's only one chapter out as of now. ;)

As for Gail, with two more boys gone, that leaves only eleven left... rather close to the magical ten...

Let me know what you thought about everything that happened, and thanks for reading!

~ GWA

NTT: "Did you mean… holding hands? Ew!"


End file.
